


Iceberg

by Ebozay



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Healing, Post-Mount Weather, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-07-17 10:59:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 96,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16094285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebozay/pseuds/Ebozay
Summary: After the Mountain Clarke, lost and broken, wandered through the forest with pain, emotional and physical, her only companion. But, after countless days of suffering, she stumbled across a mother and daughter, two people who lived secluded from the world.What started as a chance encounter leads Clarke on a journey where she must face the guilt of her actions, and the anger and fury she feels towards the Commander. But, life is ever strange, and Clarke discovers that the Commander is perhaps closer to her now than she has ever been before.





	1. Chapter 1

Pain seared up Clarke’s leg, each step she took made her scream out in anger, in frustration, agony and fear. The roar of the beast echoed out behind her, its fury, its anger and hunger filled the air and filled her senses, and Clarke wept, she pled, she begged to whatever god, whatever spirit, deity or soul that could save her from the suffering.

But no answer came.

And so Clarke tripped, she stumbled, fell and tumbled to the ground. She felt stone and stick, rock and branch stab into her, scrape against her flesh, bury into her with each twisting tumble of her body. But, as quickly as she had tripped, she came to a stop.

Clarke found herself gasping for breath, her lungs begged for air, for oxygen, her body longed for relief. But she remembered the beast, she remembered its claws, its hunger, and she remembered it giving chase.

Fear spiked once more, she felt the adrenaline beginning to flow through her veins again, and yet something in her mind, something in the recesses of her thoughts told her to be quiet, to make little sound and little movement.

Clarke let herself still, she let herself press into the wet, the soft and the dirt of the forest floor, into the moss, green and moist. She thought she heard the sniffing of the beast somewhere in the distance, and she knew it searched for her, for her scent, for her presence. It took her a moment longer to realise that the moss she lay in, the dirt that now covered her body, the twigs that stuck into her hair, that tore at her flesh must have masked her scent, must have masked what little had given away her presence when the beast had first attacked.

And so she couldn’t help but to cry, to weep, to feel the pain, if only in silence.

And maybe, for just the briefest of moments, Clarke let herself imagine what it must be like to be consumed alive.

 

* * *

 

Clarke dreamt of forests, of green swathes that shifted and wended across the lands. She dreamt of oceans, blue and vast, their depths as brilliant and as terrifying as the emptiness of space. But her dreams never seemed to linger too long on the pleasant, if only because those forests, once green and vibrant, shifted to the black of burnt tree, to the red of burning flame, and to the charcoal of dying embers. And those oceans, once blue and deep, turned to dried riverbeds, to dirt that was cracked and broken, that revealed nothing but the dead that had been left behind in her wake.

Clarke’s eyes cracked open ever so slowly. Pain seemed to ebb and flow over her body, and she tried to think of where she was, of how she had found herself pressed into the dirt. The sky overhead, or at least what little of it she could spy through the canopy, seemed dark, seemed black, seemed absent of the sun’s light. Stars just barely sparkled, and the moon, slivers of it that shone crystal white in the night, gave light to the forest floor that Clarke found herself lying upon.

She shivered as the wind took hold of her body, she shivered as she remembered the beast that had chased, had hunted and stalked. But she pushed herself into a sitting position with her palms, both now bloodied and covered in dirt and mud. Her leg seemed not to hurt as much as it had earlier, or perhaps it was simply not the only thing that hurt now after her tumble across the forest floor.

And it took her only a moment, only a second to appreciate having not died before the guilt took hold, before the fury, the burning heat of acid and flame took hold of her thoughts. Clarke’s lip trembled, her vision clouded as tears began to form, and she hated the things she had done. She hated the lives she had taken in the Mountain.

She had even lost count of how many days she had wandered through the lands, she had lost count of how many steps she had taken after stumbling one too many times. She had lost count of the times she had thought of throwing herself down a ravine, of scaling the highest tree she could only to leap to her fate. And perhaps she was broken, perhaps her life, her actions, were ruinous. But perhaps the only thing she really knew, the only thing she would ever accept, was that she deserved whatever pains she was to face. If only because she thought it the least she could offer to the souls of the dead.

And so Clarke grimaced as she came to her feet, her body broken and bloodied, her clothes dirtied and battered. Tears through her jacket and fibres from her shirt clung to the cuts that littered her exposed flesh, but she ignored the pain as they pulled free.

Clarke took only a moment to look around herself, to try to discern a direction to travel, to try to find a place to call home for just one night. But all she saw were the trees that rose into the night, were the bushes whose thorns would prickle and sting, and the dark and the cold of a night that would do little but offer a heatless warmth.

But maybe she cared not which way she walked. Only that it was away from her past.

And so Clarke took in a deep breath, she let the crack in her bottom lip open once more, she let herself taste the pain and the blood. And then she began to step forward.

Her feet seemed heavy, her legs leaden, but she pushed onwards with little care for the noise she made, she pushed forward with little care for the pain she caused herself, and she did so for she thought it the only thing that let her feel alive.

She stumbled once, twice, three times before catching herself on a low hanging branch, and she couldn’t help but to cry out in pain, in frustration as a thorn stuck into her palm, as it tore at her skin.

Clarke let her feet still as her hand remained impaled on the small thorn, its point embedded in the fleshy part of her hand, and she found that her eyes were drawn to the blood that oozed from the wound, that barely just escaped past the thorn’s body. She watched as she pulled her hand away ever so slowly, and she watched with sickened fascination as she saw her skin stretch, pull, grip to the thorn as it slowly slid free. Through it all, Clarke couldn’t help but to wonder what it must feel like to have a blade slipped into her heart.

 

* * *

 

Clarke walked a riverbed in the dead of night. Water lapped and trickled against the pebbles and stone that surrounded her, its sound the only thing she could hear over the crunch of each step she took.

Occasionally a bird would call out in search of friend, its song echoing ever so lowly through the air. Clouds would drift by overhead, but Clarke found herself unable to appreciate the beauty of the night and the majesty of the lands, for the only thing she let herself focus on, the only thing she let herself accept was each pain that littered her body.

Maybe she was pathetic, maybe she was fragile, broken, undeserving of the life she had stolen, of the life she still lived. Or maybe she deserved the air she breathed in some sickened, ironic way, if only because she thought herself unable to ever forget, to ever let g—

Clarke stumbled once, she stumbled twice, she stumbled a third time. But this time there was no branch to catch, there was no thorn to snare her body.

And so she fell to the river’s edge, where pebble, smooth and small, and stone, jagged and sharp came to greet her with the kindness of a burning flame.

And Clarke embraced it.

 

* * *

 

Clarke drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes her thoughts seemed to return to her childhood, to her father, her mother, to Wells. Sometimes her thoughts drifted to her past, to the year she had spent in prison, to the cold and the emptiness of a cell whose walls were bare except for the imagination of a desperate mind. Sometimes her thoughts turned to the ground, to the war cries, to the battles, to the blood, the fear and adrenaline.

Sometimes her thoughts drifted to the Mountain, to the room with the lever, to the pain of murdering, of killing, of ensuring no others but her friends would survive. And she found her thoughts happy to recall the stench, she found that her thoughts were content to remember the way burnt and bubbled, blistered and bleeding body had filled her nose. And oh how she hated that it reminded her of meat too long cooked, too fresh, too rotten, too rancid to eat, to sink her teeth into.

But sometimes, somehow, for some reason, her thoughts turned to softer times, kinder times, times so uncertain, so unsure that she never quite believed, never quite accepted. And she remembered the feel of a hand pressed to the side of her face, she remembered the pressure of lips pressed against hers, of chaste eagerness, wanton desire and desperation. She remembered eyes too fierce to forget, she remembered breath too quick, too sudden to taste. She remembered dreams, she remembered the beat of a heart.

She remembered it all.

 

* * *

 

She didn’t know how many days she had stumbled forward, she didn’t know how many nights she had shivered, and she didn’t know whether it had been weeks or months since she had left Camp Jaha behind. All Clarke knew was that the sun beat down upon her shoulders. Her clothes hung from her body, tattered, torn, open to the wind. Her flesh felt caked with days of dirt, of blood and sweat. Her hair was frayed, mud lumped it together in ragged clumps, and she was sure sticks, grass, dirt and leaves must have littered it. But she didn’t quite care. And she didn’t care for she stepped forward without quite thinking, without even really knowing what she did.

Delirium had taken hold of her mind so long ago that Clarke didn’t even really understand much more than the pain in her feet and the ache in her chest. She thought she had walked so very deep into Trikru lands by now that any sign of life, any sign of another person was more than days away.

Animals had seemingly become the only other living companion she had, and she thought it fitting, she thought it suitable that she had been reduced to nothing but instinct. And instinct was seemingly the only thing that told her to drink what little water she could find, from tiny trickling stream to raging flowing river. Instinct was the only thing that told her to sleep when she did, whether it be the pitch black of midnight, or the burning heat of midday. And instinct was the only thing that told her to walk, to take step after step until she would one day be unable to do so.

But instinct also told Clarke to stop, to not take one step further.

And so she stopped, she half stumbled and she came to sink to her knees and double over onto all fours as she gasped for breath, for relief and reprieve.

Her lungs burnt, her throat screamed for something cold, something liquid, something to quench the thirst. But a wind, something a little more strong seemed to catch her attention, seemed to catch her unawares. And so Clarke looked up, she looked up and she saw.

The forest had ceased to exist just a step behind her, the ground, once mud and dirt and forest floor was now flowing grass, glimmering and dancing to the wind. The ground beneath spread forward for just a moment before it dipped down and down into a valley deep below. The valley cut a river of grass between two high peaks that rose up into the sky. The sides of the valley, steep and flowing, were covered in groups of small trees, whose bodies huddled together as if for comfort and warmth. At its bottom a lone river sparkled and snaked its way into the distance, whose destination was so far removed from Clarke’s sight that she thought it infinite, never ending.

The river seemed to call to her though, it seemed to sing her forward, seemed to urge her to take another step, and so Clarke struggled to her feet, she struggled to stand. And Clarke thought it would be nice to taste water, to let it quench the thirst that clawed at her throat.

If only water could also quench the guilt raged somewhere deep within her mind.

 

* * *

 

The sun began to set by the time Clarke made it to the river’s edge seen at the height of the valley walls. Her journey down its sprawling sides had been dangerous at times, careless and full of tumbles and falls. But now, as she knelt down on her knees and dipped her hands into the cold stream, she found that it had been worth it.

Clarke let her hands settle fully under the water, and she watched as the days of dirt, of blood, seemed to come clean a little too easily. Dirt, oiled and black, seeped from her flesh, it seemed to poison the water around it, and she watched as the river’s gentle current began to take it away.

The cold seemed to steal away the aches in her fingers, seemed to ease the stinging in her hands from the cuts and scrapes that adorned her fingers, her palms and her knuckles. Clarke’s gaze settled on her reflection though, and what stared back scared her, caused her heart to still, to deaden.

Eyes, lifeless, broken, and red from pain met her gaze with a desperation. Tear streaks seemed permanently etched down her cheeks, their journey having furrowed a path through the days of dirt that blackened her skin. The hair that crowned the face that looked back was torn, twisted, woven into locks, lumpy and pathetic.

And Clarke couldn’t help but to imagine what it must have felt to have her flesh burn and bubble, melt and roast to the air. She couldn’t help but to wonder what it would be like to smell her own flesh, her own muscle cook, and she couldn’t help but to feel her stomach churn, to feel her insides scream out in disgust as she imagined what it would be like to hear all those things, to hear her own screams of agony that would fade into her last dying breath.

A cry echoed out through the air then, something shrill, something sharp, youthful, full of joy and happiness.

Clarke’s head snapped up to the sound, her eyes squinted past the ray of light that flashed in her vision. It took her a moment before her gaze found the source of the noise. Across the river and to her left, where the river began to bend away from her vision, stood a woman on the riverbed, hands on her hips, a bow and arrow strapped across her back. But the source of the noise, of the cry of joy, was a girl who leaped through the shallows, whose awkward steps came from gangly limbs still with years left to grow, but whose smile, whose eagerness was directed to the arrow that bobbed in the water, to where a pool of dimmed blood seemed to be spreading out across the water’s surface.

And Clarke couldn’t help but to see the lifeless body of the fish, whose twitching muscles spasmed one last desperate time as its glistening body shimmered in the sun.

And perhaps Clarke couldn’t be blamed for feeling sick, for not seeing the joy in the moment, and perhaps she could be forgiven for feeling the burn in the back of her throat, for feeling the churning of her stomach.

And so Clarke retched, her stomach emptied what little she had managed to forage, and she watched as a mess of rotten, putrid slush escaped past her lips and sullied her reflection in the water’s surface.

But she sensed the change in the air, and as she looked up she saw the woman’s eyes flashing in her direction, surprise, shock and hostility quick to take hold as the woman unslung her bow and drew an arrow, its point glinting in the sunlight as it came to be levelled at Clarke’s chest.

Clarke wasn’t entirely sure what happened next, she wasn’t sure if, in the woman’s surprise, she had fired, had struck her in the chest with that arrow. But what Clarke did know was that her vision began to blur, her limbs began to feel weak, leaden, unsure.

And the last thing she remembered before she lost consciousness was a young girl whose faced seemed oddly recognisable, and a woman with the slightest signs of wrinkles upon an older face, the glint of green eyes from across the distance, fearsome hair, brown, streaked with the barest hints of grey, braided and flowing, and the strangest sense of familiarity.

And then Clarke’s face was enveloped by water as she slumped forward.


	2. Chapter 2

Fire crackled and burned, it’s heat fierce in intensity. Smoke seemed to fill Clarke’s nose with scents of death, of burning embers and ash. Something rough, something ragged scratched at her skin, and an ache, a burning sting and a pain ebbed and flowed with each beat of her heart.

Clarke’s eyes opened to the dark of a room, to walls of wood, weathered, aged, scratched in places. Furs covered parts of the wall, their patterns magnificent. Tapestries lined the places not covered by the furs, and they depicted battles, they depicted scenes that Clarke was sure must have been fabled stories, histories, memories passed down from mother to daughter and father to son.

A quiet ringing echoed out around her, the motion slow, careful and gentle to her ears. It took Clarke only a moment longer to remember where she had been, what she had seen. And then she sat, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, and she couldn’t help but to gasp out as an old wound stretched, as it seemed to reopen, and she grimaced as a muscle protested the motion.

That ringing stopped, and as Clarke blinked, as her eyes settled to the dimmed light, she found a fire that burned in a fireplace, its embers gentle, its flame happy to dance. Light flickered to and fro, the shadow it left behind lazy in motion. But Clarke’s gaze landed on a girl who sat nearby. The girl had hair, brown and braided, its colour perhaps tinged with the barest hints of red. Her braids framed a face that still clung to a youthful roundness, but, Clarke was sure from the shadows cast across the girl’s face, that she would one day have features as sharp and as cunning as an eagle. Her eyes, from what little glances Clarke could steal, seemed green, seemed emerald, piercing and vibrant in the orange glow of the fires.

The girl ran a whetstone across a small knife. Her fingers seemed sure, dextrous, certain of movement as she sharpened her blade. But the girl must have sensed Clarke’s waking for she paused mid stroke, she looked up from where she sat in a small chair.

Clarke wasn’t sure what to think, she wasn’t even sure what to say as the girl placed the whetstone down on a table nearby. All she could really think of doing was swallowing past the lump in her throat borne from fear and apprehension, and from thirst and dehydration.

“You are awake,” the girl said, and Clarke couldn’t help but to think the girl’s voice rich in timber, familiar in tone. “I will get nomon.”

Perhaps it was the oddness of the situation, perhaps it was the way the girl seemed content in her company, or perhaps it was the fact that Clarke had lost track of how many days it had been since she left Camp Jaha, since she had eaten a full meal and had quenched her thirst fully. But she found herself unable to process what happened, unable to accept the things she saw.

And so Clarke stared wide-eyed, slack jawed, dumbfounded and densely as the girl waved, as the girl stood, tucked her knife into its place on her hip and then turned and took her leave through a door that swung open to reveal a larger room beyond the four walls Clarke found herself in.

Clarke listened to the girl’s footsteps that faded away, that seemed to travel through what must be a small home tucked away in a quiet corner of the lands. She heard the girl call out though, and the sound seemed happy, seemed just a little excited. And so it didn’t quite surprise Clarke when she heard a second pair of footsteps.

It only took another few short moments before the girl returned with the older woman in tow, but in that time Clarke took the chance to eye the room she was in once more, and she thought the furs and tapestries well loved, well used at times of cold. She thought the lightest of scratches in the chair the girl had sat in spoke of times long gone, of ancient moments shared between child and parent.

But Clarke also noticed a faint scent beginning to flow around her, something warm, something spiced, something that spoke of food. A shadow fell across Clarke’s lap, and she looked back to the door with uncertainty from where she had propped herself up on the bed. Standing in the doorway stood that older woman, whose hair was fiercely braided, the colour a rich and deep brown and with the faintest traces of grey. The woman’s eyes were as green as the girl’s, yet Clarke saw a wisdom, a depth and a life far more ancient in them than that of the girl’s youthful gaze. And Clarke was sure from the woman’s face, from the sharpness of her jaw and the line of her nose, that the girl was the woman’s daughter.

“You are awake,” the woman said, and Clarke couldn’t help but think the voice pulled at the corners of her mind ever so slightly.

“Where am I?” perhaps Clarke should have thought of something different to say. Or perhaps she could be forgiven, if only because the situation seemed so sudden, too sudden for her mind to really comprehend.

“You are safe,” the girl said with a cheery smile as she stuck her head around the woman’s waist only for her to be pushed back with a quiet scolding.

The woman took another step forward before sitting in the chair, the girl leant against the doorframe, and through it all, Clarke found herself unsure, uncertain and perhaps a little fearful of what was to come.

“Where am I?” Clarke asked again, and this time her voice seemed a little quieter, a little timid as she tried sitting up straighter only for her head to spin, for her muscles to protest the movement.

“In Trikru lands,” the woman answered as she crossed her legs and levelled her chin, eyes hard and lips tight.

“I—” Clarke coughed, her throat scratched and raw.

The girl took a step forward though, hand outstretched and holding a small flask of drink that Clarke heard slosh. “Thank you,” Clarke said as she reached forward and took the offered flask with unsure fingers.

It felt cool to the touch, its body a beaten metal, dented and full of life and scratches, and Clarke thought it beautiful, if only because it quenched her thirst as she brought it to her lips, it cooled her throat as she swallowed, and she groaned as she drank greedily.

A laugh seemed to fill the room then, or perhaps not a laugh, but a chuckle, something kind, something full of humour, and as Clarke pulled the flask away she found herself eyeing the woman once more, whose features seemed to have softened ever so slightly at the way Clarke had so desperately taken to the flask.

“Sorry,” Clarke said, and she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “I didn’t mean to drink it all.”

“You were thirsty,” the woman answered with a shrug.

“Thank you,” Clarke said, and she found herself realising she must have stumbled upon a home hidden away from the world, perhaps a small village unknown to her, where people had tried to live far away from the Mountain.

But she couldn’t help but to feel a little worry, if only because she knew not what these people, if there were others, would think of her, if they knew who she was, where she had come from or what she had done.

“Nessa,” the woman said after a pause, and Clarke looked to the woman to see her staring intently at the girl. “Leave us, Nessa.”

Clarke couldn’t help but to find the childish frown that grew on the girl’s face charming, disarming and youthful.

“But nomon, you sa—”

“Leave us, Nessa.”

The girl muttered something, that from the woman’s expression, Clarke thought was colourful in language and insult, but Clarke didn’t think the woman cared, not much anyway.

“Forgive me,” the woman said as the door closed behind her, and as the girl— Nessa— faded into the quiet of the noise that only just filtered in through the house. “Nessa is not used to seeing newcomers, she wished to be here when you woke,” and the woman tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, she leant forward a little, and let her eyes peer up at Clarke with an odd intensity she found familiar.

“I—” but once more Clarke’s words died in her throat for she was unsure of what to say. And she knew not if she should apologise for intruding, for wandering into these people’s lives, or for saying thanks, for offering gratitude for being taken to a place, at least for a day, or however long it was since she had fainted. But as Clarke continued to think, as she continued to let her thoughts run through her mind, she found herself wondering, if just for a second, that she could be a prisoner, someone now held hostage, or perhaps she would simply be set free in moments to come, be set out into the world once more to wander, to travel lost and without aim and hope until whatever foolish fate awaited her.

“What is your name?” the woman’s voice cut into her spiralling thoughts, and Clarke couldn’t help but to startle, to think the voice odd, rich, too familiar.

“Clarke,” and she wondered if the woman had heard of her people, of those that had come to the ground in a ball of fire.

“You are with Skaikru?” that was answer enough.

“Yes,” Clarke said with an uncertain nodding of her head.

“I know who you are,” the woman said, and at that Clarke couldn’t help but to feel the fear spike ever so gently. “You are the one who led your people in battle.”

“I did,” and Clarke wondered if the woman knew of what had happened in the Mountain, of what had happened when Lexa, whose name now boiled Clarke’s blood, had left her alone, had betrayed her, stabbed her in the back and left her broken.

“Are you lost?”

And she was, but she didn’t know whether she wished to explain, to face the things she had done.

“No,” Clarke lied, but from the way the woman’s eyes softened just a little, and from the way a smirk played across her lips, Clarke knew the woman read the lie.

“Ok,” and the woman leant back in her chair. “Do not worry,” and she gestured around herself. “It is not often we have the company of others, so it will be good for Nessa to have someone else to talk with.” Clarke couldn’t help but to do much more than blink owlishly, to not quite let the words sink in. “Now rest, Klark,” the woman said, and she couldn’t help but to think the way the woman’s tongue clicked her name out just a little too familiar. “You must heal,” and with that the woman stood.

“Thank you,” but Clarke paused, for she found herself unsure of what to call the woman, but she remembered Nessa calling out, she remembered her protests, and so Clarke settled for a stab in the dark, however blindly it would be. “Thank you, Nomon,” and she knew her words came out as much question as thanks.

But Clarke knew she had guessed wrong when the woman smiled, laughed, and shook her head. “No,” and the corners of her eyes crinkled enough to speak of a life of laughter, of pains, memories and love. “Nomon means mother,” and Clarke couldn’t even try to deny that her cheeks reddened, that her ears burned.“My name is Alexandria,” and she turned for the door. “Now sleep, rest. We will wake you when food is ready.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke dreamt of fires, of burning heat that graced her body, that bathed her in a flame that licked at her flesh, that bubbled her mind and twisted her body. She dreamt of pain, she dreamt of agony, of dreams that were broken, shattered, laid to waste at her feet. But, in the corners of her mind, where her thoughts never dared travel, she knew something soft lingered, something gentle, something kind, something that had once given her pause, had once calmed the raging of her life, had made her hope for a life not so full of anguish, of frustrations and fear and desperation and ag—

A hand gripped her shoulder, it shook her awake and Clarke bolted up, looked around herself wildly, frantically.

The dark of a night had settled its way through the small room, the furs and tapestries upon the walls seemed more dull, and a lone candle burned atop the small table beside the chair, its flame flickered and danced and cast a shadow across every surface.

A squeeze was felt on her shoulder again, and Clarke let her gaze settle onto the presence by her side.

Nessa sat on her heels, the girl leaning back just a little as uncertainty filled her eyes, but her hand remained on Clarke’s shoulder, her eyes were wide, and Clarke couldn’t help but to think an innocence still strived for its rightful place upon the girl’s face, despite the depths of life that could be seen within green eyes.

“Dinner is ready,” Nessa whispered. “Nomon said to let you sleep, but I thought you would be hungry,” she continued as she reached back and took hold of a small bowl, its content steaming broth and roasted meats and vegetables.

“How long was I asleep?” Clarke asked as she took the bowl.

“Long,” Nessa shrugged. “It is dark now.”

“Thank you,” Clarke said as she took hold of a spoon and pulled it through the broth and let the scents fill her nose.

“Nomon says you should eat slowly,” Nessa continued. “She said you had not eaten for a long time, and that it would be better if you are careful,” she finished as she bit her lip and eyed whatever state Clarke was sure she was in.

“Thank you, Nessa,” Clarke said, and she couldn’t help but to smile just a little at the way Nessa seemed bashful.

“Nomon says you came from the sky,” Nessa continued as she sat in the chair and let her eyes wander over Clarke’s body, over her clothes, torn and still dirtied.

“I did,” Clarke said, and she wondered how much Nessa knew, how much she was aware of.

“Have you met the Commander?” Nessa asked, “did you meet her?” and Nessa’s eyes seemed wider now, seemed eager. “She was there at the battle of the Mountain.”

And Clarke felt the flickering of anger beginning to build, beginning to take hold, but she couldn’t help but to try, at least partially, to stamp it down, to control it. If only because Nessa was, and must be innocent from all the wrongs Clarke felt she had faced.

“She was there,” and Clarke couldn’t help but to think Nessa mimicked Lexa in the way she sat up, levelled her chin and let her face smooth.

“The Commander is—”

“Nessa,” the girl’s eyes widened and she turned in her chair to find Alexandria standing in the doorway, one of the woman’s eyebrows raised, and a hand on her hip. “Did I not tell you to leave Klark be?” Alexandria continued more gently, her tone soft now, caring, but still filled with reprimand.

“Yes, nomon,” Nessa said, her tone just a little exasperated, and Clarke felt the corners of her lips twitch up just barely.

“Now go,” Alexandria said as she stepped forward and pulled Nessa from the chair gently. “Leave Klark be. I must talk with her.”

And so Clarke watched as Nessa looked over her shoulder, smiled and waved a quick motion before she ducked out of the room and let the door close behind her with a quiet creak and thud.

“You must forgive Nessa again,” Alexandria said. “She is excited to meet a member of Skaikru,” she continued as she came to sit in the chair. “She has only ever heard of you and your people from the few whose paths we have crossed.”

“It’s ok,” Clarke said as she sat more fully and swung her legs over the side of the bed, the barest hints of distaste the only thing she let show as she gazed upon the dirt covering her pants.

But Alexandria must have seen where her gaze was directed, “I will get you new clothes,” and she turned and ducked out the door quietly, and Clarke peered out the crack in an attempt to see others, to see if she stayed in a village, if people moved about, or even to confirm if she was truely free to leave. But all she saw was Nessa’s face that smiled back through the crack with a toothy grin.

And so Clarke was left alone for yet another few short moments, she looked down to the bowl, and she felt her stomach grumble, she felt the hunger beginning to really take hold.

And it hadn’t been a conscious decision, something planned or decided upon, but she thought that if she took a bite, if she let herself satisfy her hunger then she would be, in some way, giving up too easily, accepting help before she had suffered as much punishment she thought she should have suffered.

But, she thought it couldn’t hurt. Not as much as her mind hurt.

And so Clarke brought the spoon to her lips, let the heat wash across her face, and she took a careful bite. Meat gave way for her teeth, roots, tree-borne vegetables or berries all mixed together with the spices and pulled a groan from her with ease.

Clarke ate quickly, she ate fully, she let her hunger take hold, and she didn’t quite care for the dangers of filling her stomach too quickly, and she thought that whatever problems were to arise just another way for her to feel the pain of her victims.

Her door opened once more, and she looked up to see Alexandria standing before her, a small bundle in her arms, head cocked to the side as she eyed Clarke. It lasted only a moment before Alexandria took another step forward with a shrug and sat the bundle down on the table before turning to face her.

“They may not fit exactly,” Alexandria said. “But they are the closest to your size that I have,” and she smiled warmly as she leant her hip against the table edge and crossed her arms.

Clarke stood from the bed, placed the bowl down on the table, her motions a little unsure, but she found herself reaching for the clothes, the furs and leathers that seemed well-worn, cared for and used. And perhaps it was the fact that she had found herself already thinking of staying if it was offered, that she would take this opportunity to steal away whatever life she could until the offer had run dry. Or perhaps it was simply because she was afraid.

“I—” but the words died in her throat, and she was unsure of what to say, what she could say.

“You do not need to say anything, Klark,” Alexandria said, and she smiled, it crinkled the corners of her eyes, and it seemed genuine.

“Thank you,” and Clarke thought she understood the unspoken offer, the unspoken hand that was held out to her in the moment, free of judgement.

“Now come, Klark,” Alexandria said, “we must get you clean.”

And so Clarke looked down at herself for long enough for a disgust to fill her mind at the state of her clothes and body, but she found herself following shakily as Alexandria moved to the door and held it open for her.

“Where am I?” Clarke asked again as she snatched the bundle of clothes from the table, and she knew her tone to be careful, unsure if the question would cause offence, or would be seen as intruding. “Are there other people here?” and she couldn’t help but to ask, if only because she had seen no one, had heard no one other than Nessa and Alexandria.

“We live alone,” Alexandria answered as she moved ahead, Clarke quick to fall into unstable step behind her.

And from her tone, from the slightest hints of tightness in her voice, Clarke was sure the Alexandria wished not to expand, wished not to delve too deeply into the why.

Clarke looked around the larger room she walked through, this one a living room, quarters where life would happen. A table dominated its centre, a bowl of fruits lay atop. Furs and tapestries adorned the walls much like they had done in the room she had woken in. But Clarke saw weapon’s, too. A bow and quiver of arrows, a sword and a knife all lay atop the table, each weapon’s edge sharp, point dangerous and glinting in the little candle light that echoed out around her. A large couch of sorts, fur draped and grand sat pressed against the far side of the room.

But once more Clarke had little time to think over what had been said and what she saw because she came to a door that opened with a gentle push of Alexandria’s hand. This room had hidden away what must have been a wash room, for a large wash basin sat in its centre, the metal of its body brass, beaten, dented in places, scratched in others, burnished and glowing warmly to even more candles that flickered and danced around the room. A gentle fire, more ember and coal than flame burned underneath the wash basin, and steam rose, danced, hovered in the air.

Clarke looked to Alexandria to find the her taking a step back, eyes just once casting a watchful eye over the wash room.

“Take your time,” Alexandria said as she reached out for the door handle. “Nessa will not disturb you,” she added with a smile.

And not for the first time Clarke couldn’t help but to think the offer strange, too freely given, too kind. But she couldn’t quite care, couldn’t quite deny the allure, couldn’t hold back her bodily aches any longer. And so she did little more than smile awkwardly, nod her head and wait until Alexandria had closed the door before turning to the wash basin.

Clarke undressed stiffly, her nose turning up to the grime stuck to her clothes. It didn’t take her long until she stood naked in the wash room. Skin prickled just barely to the cold, but it was soon chased away by the heat of the steam that misted her vision, that had seemed to find purchase within every little corner to be found. She took a step towards the wash basin, enough that she could feel the heat from the flames. She peered down, she let her gaze settle upon the water that seemed milky, that seemed spiced, full of a kind of natural soap, and she thought it so far removed from even a day before, so very different to what she had been living for countless days.

But she saw her reflection, too. And what she saw disgusted her, made her stomach twist, made her mind scream in agony.

And so she did the only thing she thought made sense, she took a step forward, let her foot dip into the water and she let the ripples break her reflection lest it pull her deeper and deeper.

The water was hot, it was close to uncomfortable, hot enough that it stole her breath, broke her revelry and made her think of things she wished not to think of. But perhaps she should embrace the pain, embrace the guilt, let it wash over her.

She dipped herself further into the water, she let herself stand in its heat, and she took just one more breath before she let herself ease into its searing embrace. The water lapped at her flesh, curved around her body, seemed to laugh at the way her ribs seemed too exposed, to the way her chest seemed smaller, seemed more frail, and she whimpered as she let her back touch the heat of the wash basin, as she let it sting into the very fibres of her body.

And she imagined the water that touched her chin, that lapped at her jaw, that threatened to glide past her mouth, that threatened to smother her nose, was a fire, was a flame, was air, acid fog and putrid rain.

And she did so for she thought it the only thing she could do to feel even the tiniest semblance of the pain and agony her victims had experienced.

And so it didn’t quite surprise Clarke when she felt tears begin to fall. It didn’t surprise her as she felt her shoulders shake, and it didn’t surprise her when she realised she cried in a stranger’s bath, in a stranger’s home, in a stranger’s land so very far from anyone she had ever known.


	3. Chapter 3

Clarke woke with a splash, with water engulfing her face and the heat of the water long gone. The racing of her heart settled and she pulled herself up into a more comfortable position in the water. As she looked around Clarke thought she could hear conversation on the other side of the door, something easy, something calm spoken between mother and daughter. She even thought she heard Nessa’s laugh, the sound light, sharp and quick to find place in the silence that had settled.

Not for the first time Clarke found herself thinking what she would now do, if she would stay for as long as offered or if she would try to return to Camp Jaha, to those she had left behind or if she would simply walk out the door and return to the wilderness of the lands.

But a shiver broke through her thoughts, and with that she came to stand, the water that dripped from her body now dirtied to the grime and blood and sweat. She couldn’t help but to wrinkle her nose, couldn’t but to also think of just how the water would be disposed, but perhaps those things an issue for another time. And so Clarke came to stand in the cold of the room and she saw a rough towel that had been placed nearby the clothes Alexandria had offered her.

Clarke felt numbed to the motions she found herself living, she thought she didn’t even really remember drying herself, she thought she didn’t remember trying to tame her damp hair into something less wild, and she didn’t quite remember slipping on the undergarments, the pants, the shirt and the heavier leathers and furs that wrapped her body in a warmth and softness that she thought foreign.

But before long Clarke found herself standing and dressed, furs and leathers having replaced the dirt and grime and tattered remains of what she had worn for longer than she could remember. She took just a moment to scoop up her dirty clothes and towel into a bundle and then she came to the door.

Clarke wasn’t entirely sure what to do other than to simply open the door and take a step out, and as she did so she found Alexandria and Nessa sitting at a large table, mother and daughter in conversation, Nessa’s eyes wide her hands moving animatedly.

“I—” but Clarke trailed off as she choked on uncertainty, as she seemed unsure of what to say as both mother and daughter turned to face her. “I didn’t know what to do with these,” Clarke finished.

“It is ok,” Alexandria said. “I will take care of them,” and she gestured for the chair opposite her. “Sit, Klark,” and from the way Alexandria’s voice seemed to shift ever so slightly, Clarke was sure the older woman wished to talk, to talk things through more than they had. And perhaps Clarke couldn’t blame the woman, if only because she had stumbled across them, had wandered into their home, had intruded on a life Clarke was sure they wished to live in peace and quiet away from others. “Nessa,” and Clarke watched as Alexandria’s eyebrow raised ever so slightly, as her chin lifted and her eyes seemed to steady, each little motion oddly familiar.

“I know,” Nessa grumbled as she slipped from her chair, a frown already beginning to form across her face.

“We will not be long,” Alexandria said, and Clarke knew she heard just a little regret in the woman’s voice as she motioned for the door. “Do not go where you can not be heard.”

And so Nessa smiled as she waved, eyed the clothes Clarke knew sat just a little awkwardly over her shoulders, and then turned for a door that Clarke guessed led outwards and into the lands.

Alexandria waited until the door closed and Nessa had left, and in that time Clarke looked around herself yet again, and she saw furs lining these walls, too, clothes and small carved toys, some even stuffed, each one showing the signs of years of friendship. Small trinkets lay throughout the room, too, some Clarke thought she recognised as heirlooms, others as things that could be ornamental, or whose use was lost to her.

Even a small painting hung from the wall opposite Clarke. A younger Alexandria smiled back at Clarke, her face less lined with wrinkles, her hair less greyed but ever vibrant. In Alexandria’s arms was a small child, one hand clutching a braid that fell down the woman’s shoulders into her reach, the other reaching down to another girl who came to just above Alexandria’s hip. Clarke was sure from the familiarity, from the same sharpness of the younger girl’s face that she was a daughter, too.

“It was painted when Nessa was just a newborn,” Alexandria said quietly, and Clarke looked to find the woman eyeing the same painting.

“It’s lovely,” and Clarke couldn’t quite shake the odd sensation that seemed to be pulling at the corners of her mind as she eyed the older girl in the painting, who seemed to smirk more than smile, who seemed to challenge, to offer intensity instead of youthful bashfulness that should have been commonplace upon someone who seemed not even ten.

But Clarke didn’t miss the absence of a father figure in the image, and perhaps she didn’t miss the absence of an older daughter now, in the present, who would and should have been with Nessa and Alexandria, who would have kept the younger girl company throughout the dangers of the ground.

And perhaps the realisation that families on the ground had been broken was no different to those of the families that had lived in the sky overhead, who had lost mother or father, friend of partner.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke said, and she didn’t mean for her voice to come out wet, to come out broken and a little too tired.

Alexandria must have sensed what Clarke spoke of though, for the woman blinked back a pain that seemed to spring to mind.

“Nessa’s father died before she was born,” Alexandria said simply, and Clarke was sure the woman searched in the painting for where the father must have once stood, where he would have stood if things had been different. “I did not think to have a picture of him before he died,” and Alexandria looked away and into a shadow somewhere in the corner of the room. “These things are too costly for most to have.”

Clarke didn’t think she knew what to say to that either, but she knew what it could have felt like, what it should have felt like for Alexandria, and for Nessa. And perhaps talking, perhaps opening up to someone who had never known her, and who had suffered their own pains, was something good for Clarke.

“My father died,” and Clarke didn’t quite know if she should say more, could even say more.

But Alexandria smile sadly, and Clarke was sure she could see an understanding in the woman’s eyes, in the way her posture changed ever so slightly.

“Was it a good death?” Alexandria asked.

And Clarke knew if someone had asked her that question days ago, weeks ago, even years ago, that she would think it odd, would think it inappropriate, for surely no death could be a good death.

But now? When she had taken life, when she had saved life at times, had been willing to risk her own for things she thought were right? Perhaps she could just barely understand what Alexandria’s question meant.

“He tried to save us,” Clarke said and she made sure she looked Alexandria in the eyes, if only for herself, if only so that she knew she could speak of her father without breaking as she once did. “Our people,” Clarke added. “He tried to save everyone,” Clarke didn’t think she wanted to say more than that in the fear of opening old wounds. “And he died.”

“It sounds as though he lived a good life,” Alexandria said, and Clarke couldn’t help but to smile sadly at that.

“He did,” and she believed it.

They fell silent then and the only sounds that really disturbed the quiet was the gentle thump and twang of arrow being fired and hitting a target somewhere outside.

“Nessa must learn to use the bow and arrow, even when it is dark,” Alexandria offered as Clarke found herself looking out a curtained window and to the dark of the night outside.

Clarke found the memory of when she had first seen Nessa and Alexandria, when Nessa had fired an arrow into a fish from the river’s edge coming into her mind. She wondered what it must be like for a child of the ground to know that every game they played, every lesson they learnt taught them how to survive, how to kill and take life when needed. And she thought those things so very different to the things she had lived in the sky.

Alexandria leant forward from where she sat, let her arms cross over the table, and Clarke knew she saw a worry within the woman’s eyes.

“You may stay here, Klark,” Alexandria said, and Clarke felt herself slowly beginning to slip into something more numbed and cautious. “I do not need to know why you left your people behind,” and perhaps Clarke didn’t mind the bluntness, the way Alexandria seemed to understand the pains yet seemed willing to make Clarke face her actions on her own terms. “I do not need to know your past other than what I already do know,” and Alexandria paused for long enough that Clarke could think over what was said. “But if you are to stay,” and Clarke sensed a change in the woman’s demeanour, however slight it was. “You will share in the tasks that must be done,” and Clarke nodded. “You will help when it is needed,” Alexandria smiled just a little, and Clarke thought the woman did so in the hopes of lessening the bluntness of what was said. “But you will have a place to stay. A roof over your head and the heat of a warm meal and a living fire.”

Again Clarke thought over what was said, what had already been said, and she found herself thankful that Alexandria seemed to want to ensure Clarke understood, that she could grasp that no judgement was to be sent her way, that a fresh start, for however long she needed, would be given.

But, Clarke had questions already forming, already beginning to take hold, beginning to make her think of futures, of pasts and any myriad of other things she couldn’t quite grasp.

And yet, perhaps those questions, those uncertainties, all those little things that seemed to wriggle in the corners of her mind, were things she need not have answers to. If only because she had thought too much, had second guessed every decision she had made, had anguished and agonisedover and over and over again.

Maybe it would be nice to live without thinking too far ahead. At least for a while.

“I’ll help, however I can,” Clarke said, and she made sure her gaze was steady, she made sure her voice came out firm and clear. “Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke dreamt of wars, of battles, of raging emotions and fears. She dreamt of blood that gurgled past choking lips, that bubbled to the air, that frothed and steamed. She dreamt of pain, sometimes physical, sometimes mental. And she dreamt of things she had done, had been willing to do, knew she could do again if she was ever given the chance.

But somewhere in the midst of all that suffering, all that darkness, she thought she dreamt of a spark of light, something quiet, barely noticed, barely felt. But she knew she sensed the softness of a feathered touch, she knew she felt the calm of a hand held against her, of a whispered breath and a weight upon her lips that seemed too kind, too desperate, too fearful of reproach and dismissal.

And she woke.

Clarke woke to a new day, to a new light that just barely cracked through a sliver of a curtain. Bird song just barely made it through the walls, each call quiet and peaceful, each one purposeful and distinct. Wind seemed to whistle through the air quietly, a song of the lands to join with that of the birds she imagined soared overhead.

Clarke pulled her legs over the edge of the bed, and she found that the air prickled her skin just a little past comfort. But she embraced the discomfort, the shiver that ran down her spine and the slight ache to her muscles from the days of wandering still to wear off.

She dressed in fresh clothes laid out at the foot of her bed, the boots she slipped on just slightly too large, but nonetheless far more comfortable than the old and battered boots she had worn for as long as she could remember. The leathers she wore were supple, easily conformed to every little curve of her body, and the furs that brushed against her skin were soft, simple and practical.

Clarke spared a second to look around herself, and perhaps for the very first time since having met Alexandria and Nessa, she realised that she knew not if she had taken one of their rooms, had intruded more than she had realised.

But she had the feeling that if she brought it up, even if she had intruded, that her worries would be allayed, would be dismissed with little more than quiet acceptance. And perhaps that thought soothed her worries, if only because she couldn’t remember the last time she had been able to live without guilt for the actions she had taken since crashing to the ground.

Clarke stepped from the room, eyes quick to adjust to the bright light of the main room, and as she looked around she saw no sign of Alexandria, no sign of Nessa, too, but their absence seemed not to cause fear as it would have done weeks ago, but for why she wasn’t so sure.

Clarke took another moment to look around the small interior, and she thought it charming, from the furs and tapestries, to the wooden walls, the wooden tables, and furniture and to the small kitchen tucked away in the corner, where an open cook space dominated the area. Even fruits in another bowl sat upon what must have been a wooden kitchen counter, and Clarke couldn’t help but to find the home picturesque, simple and easy to fall in love with.

But her attention was drawn to the open door that let a breeze into the home, and she saw trees across an open field of grass, knee high and swaying to the wind. And so Clarke found herself standing at the door, her back to the home’s interior, her front to the open lands.

Flowers dotted the small field of green grass. The flower’s colours as vibrant as she could imagine, each one a shade of yellow, of red, of orange and flaming tones that danced to the wind. The trees that dotted the field’s edge reached up into the sky, their trunks as grand as the mountain ridges Clarke could see in the distance, whose peaks she had stood atop days earlier. She even wondered where that river was, where it must be snaking through the lands, and perhaps she wondered if the place she found herself was home to others who had decided to move away from the world, who had decided to find peace and quiet away from the violence that Clarke had seen daily.

The twanging of a bowstring drew Clarke’s attention, and as she looked out over the open field she saw Nessa standing with her back to her and a large bow held in her hands as she fired an arrow at a target in the distance. But Nessa must have sensed Clarke’s gaze for the girl lowered the bow and turned to face her with a smile and a wave from afar.

“Klark,” Nessa said as she began to walk towards her.

“Hey,” and Clarke wondered just how many people Nessa had spoken to over the years.

“Nomon is out hunting,” and Nessa gestured outwards and into the distance. “She says I am to stay with you,” and Clarke couldn’t help but to find the smile that was spreading across Nessa’s face charming.

“Is that so?” and Clarke thought she liked the girl, if only because she seemed not to cast judgement, or worry.

“Yes,” Nessa said all too seriously. “Now come, Klark,” and Nessa seemed to click out her name in a way that seemed oddly familiar. “I must show you things.”

And so Clarke couldn’t stifle the quiet laugh that she let slip as Nessa beckoned her forward and away from the home, but as Clarke began to fall into step she looked back behind her and to the open door.

“You don’t need to lock up?” Clarke asked.

Nessa looked over her shoulder, scrunched her nose in thought for a moment before answer. “No,” Nessa said. “It is ok. The house is looked after.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke wasn’t entirely sure where they walked, or how far they had travelled, but she found that she enjoyed the peace and quiet. Nessa chatted ever so easily, the young girl happy to point out landmarks they passed, or places Clarke was sure held meaning to the girl.

And it was strange, too, and it was strange because Clarke hadn’t quite let herself enjoy the majesty of the lands for so long, hadn’t felt at ease amongst the forest and trees for days and days. But now, as she passed tree after tree, bush after bush and open field of flowing grass, she thought it awe-inspiring.But Nessa came to a stop at a tree-line, the trees to their backs and an open winding field to their front. Nessa looked up into the sky for a moment, the girl squinting past the sun’s light that now seemed to be just slightly lower in the sky than before.

“Nomon will be back soon,” Nessa said.

And as Nessa looked her up and down, Clarke was sure the girl took in the way her face must have been a little redder, and the way her chest rose to the exertion of walking as far as they had, but the girl made no mention of it as she smiled and sat on the grass below them.

“We don’t have to get back?” Clarke asked as she sat next to the girl.

“No,” Nessa shrugged. “Nomon will know where we are,” and she gestured lazily around them, the motion seemingly an answer in itself.

Nessa looked up into the sky one more, and Clarke watched as the girl’s face scrunched up in thought, as she tried to see whatever it was that she tried to see in the very distance. Clarke was sure she saw the wonder though, she was sure she saw where Nessa’s thoughts must have been going for the girl’s eyes seemed awed in the way they never wavered.

“You come from the sky,” Nessa said, and Clarke couldn’t help but to find herself unsure of what to say other than to nod her head, to reaffirm what the girl already must know.

“I do,” and Clarke wondered whether the girl could even comprehend technology, could understand it as something more than magic, than something unbelievable.

“What was it like?” and Nessa turned to her, her face showing just the slightest signs of exertion. “I can not even imagine.”

Clarke took a moment to think of how to describe space, the Ark, how life was like, and for a moment she couldn’t focus on much more than the pains, on the anguishes and the cruelty of what life on the Ark had been like. But, as she let herself take in the eagerness in Nessa’s face, in the way she seemed to be waiting for a response with wanton desire, Clarke thought she couldn’t tell the girl the bad, not yet, not when innocence seemed to still fight for its place within the green of her eyes.

“It was different,” Clarke said, and she watched as Nessa nodded for her to continue.

“How?” Nessa asked, and she moved just a little closer.

And Clarke took a moment to think of how to describe space, of what to describe. And she remembered Nessa leaping through the water, of having shot the fish with her bow and arrow. And though Clarke had never space walked, there were times on the Ark, even places, where zero-g environments could be experienced.

And so, “It’s like floating in water,” and Clarke recalled the few times she had felt water take her body, had supported her weight, had eased her aches. “But you don’t have to worry about breathing,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about trying to float, trying to keep your head above water,” and she wondered what it would be like to float endlessly through space, to worry not for anything more than living the last of her moments, whether it would be peaceful, or whether it would be full of fear, of pain. Or if her mind would simply accept what was happening and leave her calm and free of worry.

“Like floating,” Nessa said, and her voice came out quiet, came out gentle and awed.

“Yeah,” Clarke smiled at her. “Just like floating.”

“Maybe one day I will see the sky,” Nessa said, and she nodded to herself as she looked up into the clouds.

“Maybe,” and Clarke couldn’t help but to wander if she would return to space, to the depths of the black if she was given the choice.

Nessa fell quiet for a moment then, and Clarke couldn’t help but to think the girl thought of things out of her control and decisions she could not make herself.

“It is lonely here sometimes,” Nessa said as she pulled her knees to her chest. “Nomon is with me always,” and she looked back to Clarke. “But sometimes I wish I had other people who would stay longer than they did,” and Clarke recalled Alexandria mentioning that travellers would come through, would give news, perhaps even trade.

“How long have you lived here by yourselves?” Clarke asked, and she couldn’t help but to think the way Nessa bit her lip in thought to be charming and full of open innocence.

“Years,” Nessa shrugged. “I do not remember coming here. But nomon says it is for our safety,” and Nessa looked away in thought, and Clarke thought the girl tried to think of how to say whatever thoughts were taking hold.

“I’m sure she has her reasons,” Clarke said, and she found herself remembering the painting that hung upon the wall, of Nessa held in Alexandria’s arms, of the sister who no longer seemed present, and the father who died before being able to hold Nessa in his own arms.

“Come, Klark,” Nessa said as she stood and seemed to shake whatever darker mood had been slowly taking hold. “We must return,” and she smiled as she held out a hand for Clarke to grasp. “Nomon will make me wash all the dishes if it is dark when we return.”

 

* * *

 

The sun had taken its place somewhere towards the horizon by the time Clarke and Nessa returned to the small home. Nessa’s quiet acceptance of how the solitude of where she lived had vanished during their walk back, too, and the girl had been happy to talk of things she had done, of even more places for Clarke to see.

And Clarke thought that Nessa’s youthfulness was what she had needed to keep her mind from the things she had done. Or at least for her waking moments, for she was sure she would sleep with guilt and pain her only companion. Clarke heard voices though, and she sensed Nessa perk up just a little at the sound, and Clarke couldn’t help but to think it a little intriguing, if only because she wondered who else would have sought the comfort of isolation.

Nessa’s pace quickened as she began to move towards her home, to the door that still lay wide open, and to the voices that Clarke could hear more clearly.

“Come, Klark,” Nessa called over her shoulder. “Dhorma does not come often,” and Clarke wondered who Dhorma could be.

And so Clarke found herself coming to the door, Nessa having already slipped inside. Alexandria sat at the table, plates of food already waiting for them full of meats and roasted vegetables. A man sat opposite Alexandria, his body large, barrel chested and strong. A wild set of braids fell down his back, and a beard cascaded over his chest and from the leathers and furs, and the blades Clarke could see strapped to his body, Clarke was sure Dhorma was a warrior of sorts.

“You are almost late,” Alexandria chided, and Clarke couldn’t help but smile as Nessa came to a stop beside Dhorma and hugged him fiercely despite the reprimand in her mothers voice.

“I was showing Klark the forest,” Nessa said as she pulled away from Dhorma’s large hand that ruffled her hair. “We were safe,” she said as she tried tucking a strand of hair back into place.

Clarke couldn’t help but to feel just a little out of place as Dhorma seemed to inspect Nessa with a familiarity, as he reached out and adjusted the leather that strapped the girl’s shoulders.

“You are growing,” he said, and Clarke found it just a little surprising that Dhorma’s voice came out softer than expected, light and easy to her ears.

“I caught a fish with my bow,” Nessa continued. “Nomon helped, but I did all the work,” and Clarke looked to Alexandria to see the woman rolling her eyes ever so slightly.

“You did, did you?” Dhorma asked, and he patted Nessa’s shoulder firmly enough that Nessa moved with the weigh of the motion.

“Yes,” and Nessa lifted her chin in defiance.

Dhorma took a moment to look her way then, and Clarke was sure she saw recognition, acceptance and some other emotion flit behind his gaze, and she was sure Alexandria had told him of her already, or had at least explained things enough for him to understand.

“Now,” Dhorma said as he turned around in his chair to face Nessa fully, and Clarke’s gaze snapped to Alexandria in time to see the woman’s eyes narrow just a fraction. “I have something for you, little Heda,” he said with a quiet chuckle, and Clarke couldn’t help but to feel just a barely there stinging in the back of her mind at Nessa’s nickname.

“Dhorma,” Alexandria’s voice sounded out ever so lightly, and Clarke heard just the barest signs of annoyance in Alexandria’s voice, and yet, she thought it held little malice, just resigned acceptance.

“It is not my fault,” Dhorma said with a chuckle. “I do as she says,” and he shrugged.

Dhorma reached into a bag that lay at his feet and pulled out a small bundle delicately wrapped in leather, and Nessa seemed to watch with bated breath and wide eyes.

“It is a gift,” Dhorma continued. “But it is not a toy, Nessa,” he said.

“I understand,” Nessa said carefully as she looked to Alexandria before back to the bundle in Dhorma’s hands.

And so Clarke watched as Dhorma carefully unwrapped the leather to reveal a knife, its blade already the length of Nessa’s forearm, the handle wrapped in dark leather that gleamed in the light. Its blade, triangular in shape was oddly familiar, and edge as sharp and pointed as any weapon Clarke had seen Trikru warriors wield in the past.

“What do you say, Nessa?” Alexandria said after a moment.

“Thank you, Dhorma,” Nessa whispered as she held the knife in her hands reverently.

“This will never leave your side, Nessa,” Dhorma continued. “Every warrior must keep a knife with them, it will keep you alive and help you in times of need,” he said.

“I understand,” Nessa said again, her eyes even wider than before, and Clarke was sure the girl’s fingers trembled ever so slightly as they wrapped around the handle.

“Good,” Dhorma said as he squeezed Nessa’s shoulder and came to stand. “I must leave now,” and he bowed his head to Alexandria. “I will return next week,” and Clarke didn’t miss the slightest signs of disappointment on Nessa’s face.

“You can not stay longer?” Nessa asked.

“I can not,” he said, and Clarke was sure she heard the regret in his voice.

And so Nessa frowned for a moment before shaking her head and smiling a brilliant smile.

“I will see you in a week, Dhorma,” she said as she extended her arm, fingers stretching outwards.

Dhorma smiled as he reached down and let his fingers close aroundNessa’s forearm and squeeze.

“And I will see you in a week, little Heda.”

And so Dhorma bid Alexandria one last farewell before turning to the door, and as their eyes met, Clarke was sure she saw that same recognition and hidden thought in his eyes. But Dhorma simply bowed his head her way, bid her a quiet farewell and slipped through the open door.

And, perhaps for just a moment, Clarke wondered who it was that had sent Dhorma to give Nessa such a gift.


	4. Chapter 4

Clarke dreamt of embers dancing across her skin. She dreamt of feathered touches that were just barely felt across her flesh. She dreamt of pain, of anger, of searing heat, too hot for her to understand, too intense for her to ignore. She dreamt of screams, of burning flesh that bubbled, cracked and roasted, blackened and charred before her very eyes. She dreamt of sights she wished never to see again and she dreamt of smells she wished to never smell.

But somewhere deep in the corners of her sleeping mind she dreamt of quickened breath, shallow breath, eager and wanting breath. She dreamt of fears eased by the ghosting of a hand across her neck, of fingers that took hold of her face ever so subtly. She dreamt of things she dared not accept, dared not imagine.

But she dreamt.

 

* * *

 

Clarke woke to the morning of a new day. She woke to her head resting against a soft pillow and to a fur wrapped around her shoulders. Day streamed in through the window, its ray just the barest slivers of the sun. Light particles danced before her, each little speck of light enough to steal her attention. And perhaps in the moment before she truly woke, Clarke could forget the horrors of her life, she could forget the pains that seemed to ravage her sleeping mind, could even imagine she lived somewhere with friend and family, partner or companion. But she knew life was not so kind.

And so Clarke rolled onto her back for just a moment, enough that she could steady the odd sense of anxiousness she felt building in her chest. It seemed to subside as quickly as it had begun, but for why, she could not tell.

She pulled the furs from her body, she embraced the cold of the morning and she let out the barest hints of a gasp as her naked feet touched the cool of the wood floor. But this, too, she embraced. If only because it let her know she lived, and that she was alive.

And what more could she ask for?

Perhaps a lot.

 

* * *

 

Clarke walked out of what had seemingly become her room to find Nessa sitting at the main table, the knife Dhorma had given her held in one hand, her old one laying not far from her across the table. Her other hand was splayed out over the table top. It took Clarke a second before she realised what Nessa was about to do before the girl started to stab the knife down between her fingers to the rhythm of a tune she began to hum.

Maybe it was the shock of the situation, the way the knife seemed far too large for the girl, or the ease and simplicity in which she let the knife stab down between her fingers, but Clarke couldn’t help but to gasp out in shock, in fear, in a want to try to stop the girl from hurting herself.

But Nessa looked up to the sound, knife halfway jabbed between her thumb and index finger, smiled and let the knife stick into the table with a thud.

“Hi, Klark,” Nessa said as she pulled the knife free and slipped it into place on her hip.

“Good morning,” and perhaps Clarke felt just a little numbed at the ease in Nessa’s movements, in the way she seemed so familiar with a knife. But Clarke shook her head, dismissed that odd feeling tugging at the back of her mind and she came to sit down opposite Nessa.

“Nomon is outside,” Nessa said as she swivelled in her chair and let her hands tap against the table top as she eyed the clothes that sat just a little oddly upon Clarke’s shoulders.

“What time is it?” Clarke asked, and perhaps for the very first time, she realised she didn’t quite know the way Nessa and the others would keep time.

“Early,” Nessa shrugged as she looked out the window and squinted before glancing at a candle. “Sunrise was two candles ago.”

“Ah,” and Clarke couldn’t help but to smile as the girl’s head cocked to the side, as a braid fell across her nose, and as her face scrunched up in annoyance as it began to itch.

“Nomon will want to go hunting soon,” Nessa said as she pushed a small bowl of fruits towards Clarke. “We have enough food already, but it is good weather and it is always better to have more,” and Nessa paused for a moment as she seemed to remember, to recall something from her past. “It is not good to run out.”

“What do you need me to do?” Clarke asked as she pulled the furs of her collar more tightly against her neck as the wind crept through the room.

“I will show you,” Nessa said with a smile. “We will fish with the bow,” and she frowned as she turned and seemed to search for it. “I know what to do now,” and she turned back to Clarke with a toothy smile and a nod of self assurance. “So I will show you.”

 

* * *

 

It was late morning by the time Clarke stepped into the wild of the lands. The leathers and furs she wore seemed to fit awkwardly upon her shoulders despite the way they hugged her body. The boots she wore just barely fit, but she couldn’t complain about having clothes that were clean, that were well cared for.

And so she took in a deep breath, blinked back the sun that glinted in her vision and she took a moment to appreciate what little of the world’s beauty she dared embrace.

Nessa walked before her, the girl’s large bow strapped over her shoulder, a quiver of arrows hanging from her hip. Alexandria walked just barely ahead, the woman’s gaze turned outwards and to the trees.

Alexandria, bow strapped over her own shoulders, had been outside hanging clothes to dry when Clarke and Nessa had left their home, and not for the first time Clarke couldn’t help but to feel a little saddened that even a task as simple as hanging washed clothes required those of the ground to carry weapon with them at all times.

But now, as Alexandria walked ahead, eyes peering outwards, hand holding her bow and drawn arrow, Clarke thought the woman comfortable, familiar with the steps she took.

Nessa walked behind her mother, the girl’s steps shadowing every motion Alexandria made, and Clarke couldn’t help but to think the scene charming, to think that she intruded just a little on something that she was sure Alexandria cherished, if only because the woman would look back every so often and smile at Nessa before turning back outwards and to the forest that sprawled out around them.

But perhaps, above all those thoughts that drifted through Clarke’s mind, was the fact that Clarke knew she did little to help in their stalking, in their hunting. And she knew she did little with each quiet snap of a stick or crunch of a leaf underfoot that seemed to follow every step she took.

“Sorry,” she whispered as another leaf crunched too loudly around them.

But Clarke didn’t think Nessa cared, if only because she girl turned back to her with a smile and a toothy grin that seemed so very removed from the way she stalked through the forest with a bow and drawn arrow, and a knife that glinted and seemed far too dangerous for any child to possess, hanging from her belt.

“It is ok, Klark,” Alexandria said as she came to a pause and crouched down beside a bush.

“It’s ok?” and Clarke couldn’t help but to notice just how out of breath she felt whilst Alexandria and Nessa both seemed at ease.

“I did not expect to catch prey in the forests,” and Alexandria smiled. “But it is good practice to stalk even when it is not required.”

“I see,” and Clarke wondered if each step Nessa and Alexandria made was purposeful, was thought of, considered carefully, or whether it was done with unconscious effort, with little worry and years of experience.

“Now come,” Alexandria said as she rose to her feet again. “The river is close.”

 

* * *

 

True to her word the river wasn’t far. The bubbling and trickling of the water filled the air, and Clarke found herself standing upon a bed of pebbles that stretched out along its sides. Splashes could be seen in the deeper parts, where the water flowed more quickly. Birds seemed to sing more loudly and the forest seemed to come alive with each passing moment.

“I will show you what to do,” Nessa said as she turned to face Clarke, and she couldn’t help but to feel just a little excitement, if only because she wondered just how she would go about catching fish with the bow.

“Hush, Nessa,” Alexandria said as she eyed the water for a moment.

“I can do it now, nomon,” Nessa said as she put her hands on her hips. “I know where to aim.”

“Is that so?” Alexandria said, and Clarke couldn’t fight back the slightest of smiles at the way Nessa nodded sagely.

“Come, Klark,” Nessa said as she turned to her. “I will show you.”

And perhaps it was the ease in which Nessa spoke, perhaps it was the way in which Nessa seemed to expect Clarke to simply follow, to pay attention, to learn, but whatever it was, Clarke found herself falling into the moment, she found herself embracing the experience, if only because it took her mind off her darker thoughts.

“We don’t need to take our shoes off?” Clarke asked as she eyed the way Nessa already began to wade into the shallows of the river.

“No,” Alexandria answered as she looked down at Clarke’s boots. “The furs and leathers will help keep water from our skin,” she said as she lifted her foot and waved it around them for a moment. “But tuck your pants into the boots before you enter the water.”

Clarke did as she was told, all the while Nessa seemed to be watching her with eager intent.

“Now come, Klark,” Nessa said as she beckoned her forward and into the water’s shallows.

And so Clarke found herself standing beside Nessa as Alexandria watched from the shoreline. Nessa drew an arrow from the quiver tied to her belt and she knocked it to her bow and began to draw back ever so slowly as her gaze settled upon the water’s surface.

Clarke’s gaze followed Nessa’s, and as she looked more closely, she found that she saw the shadows of fish that swam to and fro, that journeyed through the flowing current, and some were large, some were small, and Clarke thought their colours to be vibrant, she thought their scales to be a deep warmth.

Memories of the first time she had found water came to the surface though, and she couldn’t help but to grimace at the memory of the serpent-like beast that had attacked Octavia, that had threatened to drag her into the depths and consume her whole.

“The water makes it harder to see where the fish is,” Nessa’s voice broke through her thoughts quietly, and Clarke looked back to the girl beside her to see that she was tracking one fish in particular, the pointed tip of the arrow glinting in the sunlight as she kept the large bow steady in her grasp.

Not for the first time Clarke found herself thinking it just a little sad that Nessa seemed just as comfortable with the bow as she did, that she had been so familiar with a bladed weapon that she made a game of stabbing between her fingers in time to a rhythm that sounded more lullaby and childhood song than war-beat.

“You must aim in front of the fish,” Nessa continued, and Clarke couldn’t help but to smile just a little at the concentration she saw upon Nessa’s face. “Or you will miss,” and Nessa took in a shallow breath, her breathing stilled. And then she fired.

Clarke’s eyes snapped forward with the arrow, the sun glinted off its pointed tip, and she watched as it sliced through the air and struck the water’s surface with barely a splash. Nessa let out a hiss of annoyance though, and Clarke saw the shadow of a fish dart away. Nessa seemed to deflate as the ripples of water ebbed from existence, but Alexandria’s presence broke through her thoughts.

“Nessa,” Alexandria said quietly as she stood beside the girl, her own bow and arrow readied. “You must remember that what you see, and where the fish appears to be, is never the same,” and she drew back just a little further, the creak of the bowstring all Clarke heard. “The further away it is, the less you need to adjust your aim,” and Alexandria smiled slightly as Nessa humphed a deflated response.

Alexandria paused for just another moment, and then she fired.

And once more Clarke’s gaze snapped forward with the arrow, and shewatched as it struck the water’s surface with hardly a splash. But this time she saw the shaking of the fish, she saw the red that began to seep outwards, and she knew Alexandria had aimed true.

Clarke looked down as she felt a slight tug on the furs she wore, and she smiled as she saw Nessa look up at her with admiration and awe.

“Nomon is very good at hunting.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke couldn’t remember if she had ever eaten fish since coming to the ground, she didn’t even know if she actually knew what fish tasted like. But as she sat at the large wooden table, she found her gaze drawn to the roasted fish that lay atop a large plate, its flesh steaming, grilled, spiced and aromatic.

Perhaps for just a moment she couldn’t help but to think the fish reminded her of times she would rather forget, of memories she would rather never remember, but those pains, those anguishes, were quickly discarded as Nessa pulled her chair closer to where she sat.

And though Clarke didn’t bring it up, she was sure Nessa normally sat at the other end of the table, if only because she could see little points of the table’s surface had been chipped away in five evenly spaced apart places. But, as she looked down at Nessa, as she returned the girl’s smile with her own, she couldn’t help but to think the company she kept as soothing, as something good for her mind.

And so Clarke forced her worries away as she fell into conversation with Nessa and Alexandria, and through it all, she found herself thinking that she could live like this, with no judgement and little guilt for a very, very long time.

 

* * *

 

Clarke dreamt of broken bodies, of blood pooled in the corners of metal carts. She dreamt of body parts, of bile, sinew and torn flesh that clung to the surface of rock. She dreamt of growling, of terror, of being trapped and smothered by the stench of death.

But most of all, she dreamt of guilt, she dreamt of regret, of things she wished she had done differently, of actions and choices she should have done. She even dreamt of faces she had thought little of in days, of people she had once known, had cared for, had hated, feared, reviled and loved.

Her sleeping mind seemed to reach out for purchase in the fibres of her body for she thought herself shaking, she thought herself crumbling, trembling and thrashing out for release, for salvation, for something to wrestle away the pains and the fury she felt for the world.

And she hated, she hated, she hated, she ha—

Clarke’s eyes snapped open with a gasp of shock. Darkness had settled around herself, her sleep furs lay bundled at her waist, and the prickle of the night’s air pimpled her exposed flesh and made her shiver, shake and breathe a broken breath.

“Klark,” the whisper came from somewhere beside her, its tone full of care, of warmth. Of familiarity.

“Le—” but no. It couldn’t, and wouldn’t be, and so Clarke shook her head and let her eyes adjust to the dimmed light that enveloped her.

Nessa knelt down beside her bed, the young girl’s hair dishevelled, sleep tussled and wild. Sleep clothes lay draped over her slender frame, and her eyes were wide with worry as she held a small candle up enough that the light chased away some of the darkness around them.

“Nessa?” and Clarke blinked back the image before her.

“You were crying,” Nessa whispered quietly, and Clarke felt a pang of guilt as she realised she must have dreamt a terrible dream, must have cried out in her sleep and woken the girl.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke whispered, and she felt it, so very much. If only because she wished not to let Nessa be exposed to the horrors of her mind. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It is ok,” Nessa said simply as she sat upon the floor and pulled a fur blanket around herself, motions cautious of the burning candle. “I have bad dreams sometimes, too,” Nessa continued quietly. “I thought that maybe you would like company,” the girl finished with a bashful smile.

And that made Clarke’s heart ache, it made her want to reach out and hug the girl, shield her from the things Clarke hoped no other person should be forced to face.

“I just have bad dreams sometimes,” Clarke said, and she propped herself up on an elbow as she rolled over to face Nessa fully.

“Do you want to talk?” Nessa asked, and though her eyes were wide, though they seemed so full of youth, Clarke thought she sensed an understanding somewhere deep within them.

And perhaps Clarke shouldn’t think of Nessa as the child she was, if only because she knew the girl to have lived a life of loss already, to have been prepared for a future full of surviving, where seeing the sunrise was never a given.

“I’ve done things,” Clarke said, and though she wished not to relive what she had done fully, though she wished not to think too long, perhaps talking, however abstractly she could, would be more helpful than allowing her pains to fester and grow. “Things I wish I could have done differently,” and she shook her head enough to clear the tears that threatened to break free. “My father died,” Clarke continued, and she couldn’t help but to wonder if Nessa ever imagined her own father, or if she remembered her sister who had left behind a mother and a younger sister to a life full of isolation and lonely loss. “And sometimes I blame myself,” Clarke said. “Sometimes I question whether I should have done things differently,” and she couldn’t help but to feel the weight of her father’s watch against her wrist, the sole thing she had kept on her person since being given new clothes.

“Nomon says we must learn from our actions,” Nessa said quietly, and Clarke watched as the girl looked away in thought. “She says that even if we make a mistake, that it is a lesson, something we can use to make next time better,” and she smiled a smile full of belief. “Sometimes I wish I did things differently, too,” and she nodded. “But I know it just means I must do better next time.”

And perhaps Clarke thought Nessa spoke of hunting, or maybe she gave the girl not enough credit, for she thought she sensed more to Nessa’s words than what had been heard. And perhaps she could also be forgiven for thinking the girl older in moments like this, if only because she seemed to sense a wisdom, an understanding, or perhaps an acceptance, deep within.

“I worry for Dhorma,” Nessa continued. “I know he is a warrior, but still I worry,” and Clarke couldn’t help but to think Nessa’s lip trembled ever so slightly. “I have known him my entire life and I know he must fight when he is called to fight, and I know he must leave us each week to serve his clan,” and Nessa wiped her hand across her face, she sniffled, and Clarke thought the motion spoke of years of regret, of longing and love. “That is why I try to be better at firing the bow each day. That is why I try to be good at hunting. So that I can provide for nomon and myself. So that Dhorma can stay longer. Maybe if I do some of what he must do then he can stay longer,” and Nessa sniffled once more.

And it broke Clarke’s heart to hear Nessa speak of her longings, of how she seemed to simply want a friend, someone who she could call father, could speak with, to confide in, to share in the company of.

“And my sister,” Nessa continued, and at that Clarke couldn’t help but to feel just a little surprise. “I do not see her often at all,” and Nessa’s hand fell to her waist, where Clarke now saw two knives were strapped, the one Dhorma had given her, and her older one, smaller, edge more worn and used. “I wish she came more.”

And perhaps it was intrigue, perhaps it was surprise or shock, but Clarke couldn’t help but to wonder why Alexandria hadn’t brought up the older sister, had seen fit to leave her unmentioned, or maybe not. If only because Clarke knew not what may have happened, what could have happened. Or what was simply a sore topic, something full of loss, of acceptance that a daughter would be called to fight and not return.

“What’s she like?” Clarke asked, and she watched as Nessa smiled and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes once more.

“She is the best warrior,” Nessa said. “She is the fiercest warrior. Beautiful, strong, kind,” and Nessa nodded to herself.

“You’ve seen her fight?” Clarke asked, and she wondered when it was that Nessa must have last seen an older sister.

But Nessa looked away in thought, in worry.

“No,” Nessa said. “Never,” and she seemed to deflate just a little. “But she leads many warriors in battle so she must be the best,” Nessa continued. “She was at the Mountain, you would have seen her,” and Clarke wondered if the older sister was a general, someone she had spoken to in war meeting, had argued with, had seen kill reaper with ease. “But she has her duty,” Nessa sighed quietly. “So I do not see her often,” and those words came out more quietly, more full of longing and loss and want.

“I’m sure she cares for you,” Clarke said, and she believed it for she could think of no one who would not care for Nessa. “And I’m sure she misses you each day, Nessa, even if she has a duty to her people,” and Clarke reached out and squeezed Nessa shoulder for a moment.

And so Nessa smiled, leant into the touch just a little.

“But now you are here,” Nessa said. “So we will be friends. I can continue to show you everything. And we will become good at hunting together,” and Clarke looked down to see Nessa pulling out her old knife slowly, fingers careful in the dark. “And friends must look out for each other,” the girl continued a little more reverently now as she held out her knife, handle towards Clarke. “I have had this for as long as I can remember,” and it took Clarke a moment to realise that Nessa was offering the knife to her. “When I am scared or sad my knife made me feel safe,” Nessa said. “But now I have a new one,” and she looked down to the other knife tucked against her waist. “You have bad dreams,” Nessa said, and her voice came out soft, blunt but innocent. “So I thought my knife could be your knife,” and she smiled a shy smile.

And so Clarke couldn’t help but to smile, couldn’t help but to banish the fears that lurked in the recesses of her mind, and she reached forward and took a hold of the knife as carefully as she could.

“I’ll keep it with me forever,” Clarke said, and she meant it, she meant it so very much. “Thank you, Nessa.”

“We are friends,” Nessa answered with a bashful shrug before continuing with a smile, “and friends help each other when they are afraid.”


	5. Chapter 5

Clarke dreamt that she was running. She dreamt that something had given chase, had stalked her, made her cry out in fear. She dreamt of death hovering over her shoulder, she dreamt her shadow moved without her, that it saw fit not to follow, not to listen to the motions she made. And she thought it terrifying, she thought it full of desperation and anguish, of fury and loss and hopelessness.

Somewhere in the furthest reaches of her mind she knew she tried to wake, tried to claw at the edges of the dream that kept her locked into an endless cycle of despair. But she knew after so long that her mind would wake when it desired, that she would have to suffer, would have to experience each dream without guidance, without reprieve from the things that made her heart ache.

And so it didn’t surprise her when she felt herself pulled deeper and deeper into the nightmare she thought never ending.

 

* * *

 

Clarke ran hard, she ran fast, her breath came out ragged, desperate and broken. But she smiled, she smiled and she laughed, if only because Nessa ran before her, the girl ducked under a low hanging branch and she leaped over a fallen tree.

But Nessa came to a stop, she whirled around and her eyes widened in shock, in surprise, in eagerness and anticipation.

“You can’t run anymore,” Clarke snarled, and she raised her stick above her head, her eyes squinted past the sun that managed to break through the tree tops.

“You can not defeat me,” Nessa answered as she levelled her own stick at Clarke’s chest.

And it was childish, it was juvenile, it was carefree and so very far removed from anything Clarke had ever imagined herself doing. But it was enough to take her mind from darker times, from sadder times.

And so she lunged forward with a cry, with a laugh and she couldn’t help but to gasp out in shock and surprise as Nessa ducked the swing of her stick and ran.

But Clarke gave chase, she swung around and she tried to see where Nessa had fled. But the girl had disappeared without a trace.

Clarke squinted as she tried to see movement, anything to give away Nessa’s position, and it wasn’t until the giggle, the quiet stifled sound of laughter drew Clarke’s attention to a tree whose broad trunk must have shielded Nessa from view.

And so Clarke stepped forward with cautious step, gaze moving from the tree trunk and then to the ground as she tried to make little sound. And most of all, Clarke found that she enjoyed moments like this. If only because it let her live a life of youthful carelessness, where her only responsibility was to make sure Nessa didn’t win too many times.

 

* * *

 

Clarke woke to the quiet lull of conversation drifting through the wooden walls. Daylight just barely trickled in through a curtained window, and she blinked back the light that seemed just a little too blinding.

She thought she heard Nessa’s youthful voice ring out with a laugh, she thought she heard Alexandria’s join the sound, and she knew it to be early morning, she knew it to be time to wake and to embrace a new day.

And it was easy, she realised, and it had been easy. Falling into the routine she now lived seemed unthought, unconscious, but she found that she enjoyed what her days had become. She would wake early in the mornings, sometimes at the same time as Alexandria or Nessa, sometimes earlier, and sometimes she would wake later, when the previous day had been spent running through the forest after Nessa or helping Alexandria with whatever things needed to be done.

But she knew it to not always be so full of ease, so full of acceptance for the things she had done. And she knew so because she had times when it was quiet, when her mind wasn’t occupied with something. And those times she found herself falling into her own mind, into things she wished not to remember, or things she wished to never experience again.

And it was a spiralling of thought, a spiralling of angers and furies, of hates and regrets and things that made her blood boil, that made her teeth grind and her jaw clench, her heart beat faster and faster and her lips twitch and turn up at the corners and her breath come out ragged and broken and full of an—

“Klark,” her name echoed out through the room, and she looked up from her bed to see a shadow of two feet appearing in the slight gap under the door. “Are you awake?” Nessa’s voice called out quietly, and perhaps for just a moment Clarke couldn’t help but to smile at the fact that Nessa’s youthful lack of tact, and her voice would have woken her if she was sleeping. “I am going outside,” and there was a slight pause as Nessa seemed to think over something. “Do you want to come?”

And she knew starting her day outside, in the sun, amongst the trees would do her good.

“Yeah,” Clarke called out with a smile as she swung her legs over the edge of her bed. “I’ll come.”

 

* * *

 

Alexandria squinted in the afternoon’s light. The sun had already begun its journey below the horizon, and the wind seemed to blow through the trees a little more fiercely than it had just a few days earlier.

“Winter comes soon,” Alexandria said as she reclined a little more fully in the chair.

“Will it snow?” Clarke asked, and she wondered what it must feel like to have snow fall from the sky, what it must be like to see it blanket the ground.

“Perhaps,” Alexandria answered as she peered out across the small clearing and to Nessa who continued to fire her bow at the target. “Snow does not fall often this deep into Trikru lands. Further north, yes,” and she paused for just a moment as she seemed to think, to recall. “Though sometimes it does happen,” she said. “But even if snow does not fall, it will be cold.”

And Clarke wondered just how cold it would get, whether it would compare to the constant chill of the Ark, where the temperature was always kept just high enough that you wouldn’t shiver, but never warm enough to be comfortable.

“Nessa’s getting better,” Clarke said as she watched Nessa’s arrow strike close to the centre of the target.

“Yes,” Alexandria said, and Clarke didn’t miss the pride in the other woman’s voice, nor did she miss the smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “She trains very hard,” Alexandria continued as she pulled a fur around her shoulders a little more firmly.

And Clarke found herself recalling the conversation she had had with Nessa just a few days earlier, of how she wished to do more for Alexandria, hoped to be able to provide as much as possible so that Dhorma could stay longer. Clarke couldn’t help but to also wonder just who Dhorma was to Alexandria and Nessa, or even why Alexandria had hardly brought up the older daughter who seemed to be a warrior, who Clarke was sure she must have met during the battle of the Mountain if what Nessa had said was to be taken at face value.

And yet, Clarke found herself unwilling to bring up such topics, if only because she was, herself, thankful that Alexandria had left her past alone.

“You have questions, Klark,” and perhaps the way Alexandria’s voice broke through her thoughts seemed just a little odd, a little familiar.

“What makes you think that?” Clarke said as she faced the older woman, only to see a smile wrinkle the corners of her lips.

“You are frowning,” Alexandria said. “Many people do not frown unless they battle with their thoughts.”

“Yeah,” Clarke said, and she wondered if she should ask, would even dare to ask.

“Ask, Klark,” Alexandria offered.

“I don’t want to intrude,” Clarke countered. “Or even to offend,” and she worried her lip for a moment.

“I will simply tell you if you ask things that I do not wish to answer,” Alexandria said. “You will not offend if there is no intent to cause offence.”

And so Clarke took in a shuddering breath as she looked back and towards Nessa in time to see the girl yank her arrows free from the target before beginning the short walk back to where she had been firing from.

“I—” but Clarke paused for a moment as her gaze fell to Nessa’s knife that was now strapped to her own hip, to where it seemed just a little awkwardly placed.

“I have noticed that Nessa gave you her old knife,” Alexandria said, and Clarke couldn’t help but to bite her lip, to look away from the older woman.

“I didn’t ask for it,” Clarke said.

“I did not think you would do such a thing,” Alexandria said, but she paused for a long enough breath that Clarke knew Alexandria thought of what next to say, of how to voice whatever it was that filled her mind. “That knife was her father’s many years ago,” and it came out tinged with just the slightest hints of sadness.

“Oh,” and Clarke cursed herself, if only because she found an awkwardness beginning to settle over her. “I—”

Alexandria laughed quietly and shook her head.

“It is ok, Klark,” and again, Clarke thought the way her name sounded came out familiar. “I do not mean to make you uncomfortable,” and Alexandria reached out and squeezed her hand. “Nessa’s father died long ago. It is an old wound that has long since healed,” and she sighed as she tucked her hand back into the furs. “And I am an older woman now,” she shrugged then, and Clarke thought the motion seemed to speak of times long since gone, of youthful eagerness turned to wisened understanding.

“I can give it back,” Clarke offered, and she found that her hand had fallen to the knife.

“No,” Alexandria said lightly. “It is very much yours now, Klark,” and she smiled as she turned her gaze back to Nessa in the distance. “It has kept Nessa safe when she has felt scared. And it will do the same for you,” Alexandria said. “It is good that someone owns it who will appreciate its meaning.”

And so Clarke’s gaze fell to the knife, and she took a moment to appreciate its simplicity, the life etched into every little scratch upon the handle, or mark that graced the blade.

“She worries about Dhorma,” Clarke said, and she didn’t quite know if saying more would be wise, would be considered too probing.

“She does,” Alexandria answered with a sad nod. “She has known him her whole life.”

“Why does he only come once a week?” Clarke asked, and she knew her voice came out cautious, enough so that Alexandria would hear the question and the offer to drop the subject if she tread too far.

“He has a duty to his clan,” Alexandria said after a moment’s thought. “So he will not stay longer than a few hours at most,” and Alexandria hummed a thought. “But he also has a duty to us,” and Alexandria’s gaze moved from Nessa and to Clarke for long enough that she was sure Alexandria wished not to expand. “So he comes once a week,” she continued. “To give us news of the world beyond the valley, of what has happened,” and Alexandria smiled once. “Of your people coming to the ground in a ball of fire, of the war against the Mountain, and to its defeat,” and Alexandria trailed off lightly as she must have sensed an unease beginning to take place in Clarke’s eyes.

Clarke shook her thoughts then, if only so that she didn’t sour the calm of the afternoon. But as she did so, she found that she contemplated why Alexandria had decided to shy away from other people.

“You wonder why we live away from others, Klark,” Alexandria said, and not for the first time Clarke found herself thinking that Alexandria was far more perceptive than she seemed at first glance.

“I do,” Clarke said.

“I was tired of losing ones I cared for,” Alexandria said after a pause, and Clarke thought the woman’s voice came out just a little sad, perhaps even a little more tired. “After Nessa’s father,” and she seemed to frown, the motion a mirror of the way Nessa seemed to frown. “And my eldest daughter,” and Alexandria looked to her for a long moment, seemed to search for something. “I was tired of losing them to their duty,” she said.

“I understand,” Clarke said, and she did, she understood the desire to keep those she cared for safe, how futile it felt to try to save them only for her actions to be for nothing.

“Yes,” Alexandria’s voice came out a little lighter than, and it seemed to Clarke as though she had shaken her worries, had shaken her demons from her mind.

And perhaps Clarke wondered if Alexandria had been disappointed that her eldest daughter had chosen duty over family, had seemingly left to be a warrior, had gone against whatever wishes Alexandria must have voiced long ago.

And that realisation hurt, it seemed to gnaw at her mind, if only because she thought it echoed her life, her actions, her father’s choices, and her mother’s decisions.

A shout of joy echoed out around them, and Clarke’s head snapped up to find Nessa running towards her target where a fresh arrow seemed to be embedded dead in its centre.

“Come, Klark,” Alexandria said as she laughed and began to rise. “Nessa will wish to show us her arrow, I am sure.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke dreamt of forests, she dreamt of trees that reached up into the skies. She dreamt of a roar that echoed out around her and she dreamt of the thudding of a beast that gave chase, that stalked, that hunted.

Clarke dreamt of cages, of steel doors rusted from years of disuse. She dreamt of bones scattered about, of carcasses half eaten and animals consumed whole.

But perhaps she dreamt of another, of someone close. And she dared not embrace the dream for she feared what it meant, she feared what it would say. But above all, she dreamt of a smile, something subtle, something small, perhaps even bashful, honest and longing.

 

* * *

 

Clarke eyed the knife in her hands, she eyed the way its edge glinted in the sunlight and she couldn’t quite stamp down the apprehension she felt rising. Alexandria stood before her, a knife held in hand and a cautious smile upon her lips.

“Now remember, Klark,” Alexandria said as she slowly began to move the knife about in a pattern Clarke had tried so very hard to memorise. “In a fight with blades, it is not a question of _if_ you will be cut, but _when_ and _where._ You must anticipate what your opponent will do, where they wish to strike. And you must think, must decide what you are willing to sacrifice.”

And so Clarke steeled her nerves, squared her shoulders and let her mind ease as much as possible as she began to follow each flowing motion that Alexandria did. But to ease her beating heart, Clarke found that she tried thinking of the knife in her hands as a paintbrush, that the motions she did were simply her putting paint to canvas, and that the lessons she learnt were that of art and not of survival.

And she was no fool, not after all she had experienced, but she found that she didn’t mind lying to herself. Not when Nessa seemed to watch with bated breath and eager thought, and not when Alexandria smiled at her, seemed to judge not for things she did, for things she could have done differently, but simply cared for her. And, deep down, she realised that she enjoyed being selfish, enjoyed not worrying for anything other than what was directly in front of her with each new day.

 

* * *

 

“Higher,” Nessa whispered, and Clarke found herself smiling despite the tremble in her arm. “A little bit more,” and Nessa nudged her elbow up just a little. “There,” and Clarke heard the smile in the girl’s voice.

“You make it look easy,” Clarke said as evenly as she could, but she knew Nessa heard the strain in her voice, and she knew Alexandria watched with guarded caution.

“It is,” Nessa said, and the words came out simple, and full of youthful brutality.

And so Clarke couldn’t fight back the laugh, the smile and the curse as she released the arrow accidentally.

“You missed, Klark,” Nessa gasped as she seemed too shocked and annoyed that she had caused distraction.

“You distracted me,” Clarke countered as she lowered the bow and eyed the arrow that stuck into the ground to the left of the target.

“I did,” Nessa said, and Clarke thought the way the girl seemed to deflate at her actions so very charming.

“Let Klark try again, Nessa,” Alexandria’s voice said from behind them. “Come stand with me so you do not cause her to lose focus.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke woke to a shriek of surprise, of joy and of peaceful slumber disrupted by feet thudding against the floor. It took her a moment to realise it to be early morning, that the sun had only just begun to rise over the horizon. But she heard Nessa’s voice already chattering away through the wooden walls, she heard chairs being scraped against the floor and pushed closer together, and Clarke knew it to mean a visitor had come.

Clarke found herself smiling as she stepped from her room. Dhorma sat on a chair as Nessa sat close to him, the girl wrapped in thick furs and her hair a wild mess of half braided curls. Dhorma’s gaze moved to Clarke then, and she returned his nod of greeting with her own before taking a step towards the small kitchen where Alexandria already seemed to be preparing a small morning meal.

“Dhorma came early today,” Alexandria said in way of greeting as she took a step aside to make room for Clarke to stand beside her. “Nessa was very surprised.”

“I can tell,” Clarke said as she tried tugging a strand of hair into place.

“She woke you,” Alexandria said as she eyed the state of Clarke’s haphazard dressing, and the way her hair was surely too tussled for the day.

“It’s ok,” and Clarke fought back the yawn and the shiver that ran through her body.

“You will not say that when she wakes you every time Dhorma comes early,” Alexandria laughed lightly as she turned to where Dhorma and Nessa now stood in the centre of the room, one of Nessa’s legs held firmly in place by Dhorma’s large hand as she tried to wriggle free from whatever mock wrestle they played.

And perhaps the way in which Dhorma seemed to be gesturing to Nessa, perhaps the way in which he watched her with guarded curiosity and concern, was familiar to Clarke, if only because she had seen the same look in her mother’s eyes whenever she had worked in the Ark’s med-bay, or when she had played chess under the watchful eye of her father or of Wells.

“Dhorma’s a teacher,” Clarke said quietly as she turned her attention back to Alexandria. “He’s teaching her how to fight, isn’t he?”

“Dhorma is a very capable warrior,” Alexandria said in answer, attention turning to Clarke fully.

“Is that what you meant?” Clarke asked, and just for a moment she thought she may have tread too far.“The duty to you and to Nessa that you told me about?”

Alexandria paused mid slice of a small knife, a fruit half cut in her hand, and Clarke saw the woman think, she saw the woman consider, even look to the painting upon the wall before looking back to her.

“Yes,” and Alexandria’s tone seemed more serious now, seemed more concerned and less light as it had always seemed. “When Nessa is older Dhorma will become her first, he will teach her all she must know,” Alexandria sighed as she seemed to think of something before shaking her head. “But for now it is games that I allow Nessa to play,” she smiled, and for a moment Clarke thought the motion seemed bittersweet. And so Clarke wondered what had happened in Alexandria’s past when the woman eyed the painting on the wall, of the older sister who had her duty, who seemed to challenge with smirk and raised chin. “I wish for her to have as much of a childhood as possible.”

Clarke smiled, reached for another fruit in the bowl nearby and let the conversation change to something more joyful, something more sweet. But, in the corners of her mind, Clarke could understand what Alexandria had said, for she wished her own life had turned out so very differently to the way it had.

 

* * *

 

And so Clarke fell into a rhythm, into a routine, something consciously pursued and doggedly followed. She would wake in the morning, would rise with the early sun, or would be woken by a shriek of joy at times, or a thudding of feet upon wooden flooring. But Clarke didn’t mind the early mornings, if only because Nessa seemed not to care for the cruelty of the world, and for Clarke, that uncaring, that discarded worry was infectious, was something she embraced, was something she wished would follow her into her sleep.

But she knew it never to be so easy for she would wake at times when the moon still held kingdom over the sky, where her body would feel twisted, flushed and sweaty from anguish and fear, from memories and pains she wished would leave her be. Sometimes she would wake, would leave the quiet of her room to find Alexandria eyeing her cautiously, not with concern for her ability to function, to do whatever tasks she had promised to do, but with concern for her, for her peace of mind, for _her._ And though Clarke couldn’t find it in herself to face the truth of her nightmares, she knew she was thankful that Alexandria gave support through quiet acceptance, space when needed or companionship when desired.

Clarke embraced her days though, she embraced the journeys through the forest that filled the valley, she embraced keeping a watchful eye on Nessa, she embraced the lessons Alexandria gave her of how to protect herself with knife, of how to hunt, of which fruits to eat, which berries to avoid. Clarke even embraced, albeit with caution, Nessa’s lessons on how to fire the bow, on how to strike targets further and further away.

Through it all Dhorma would arrive, too, the man’s beard seemingly growing with each passing week that he appeared. And Clarke found that she enjoyed his company, however brief it was, for he seemed so very far removed from the images of the Trikru warriors she had in her mind. And she found Dhorma quick to laugh, quick to joke, and slow to frustrate. Perhaps it was because the man seemed genuinely happy to visit each week, seemed genuinely attached to Nessa and her youthful antics, and genuinely happy to provide what little news he had of the world outside the isolated valley.

Clarke found that she listened to the things Dhorma said, too, she found that she latched onto it without quite understanding why, and she listened for word of her people, of what they had done, if they had found peace with the Trikru, if things had calmed since the Mountain.

And it shouldn’t have surprised Clarke the first time that Dhorma had mentioned the Mountain, had mentioned the dead, the stories that had been told of those who had died, of what had happened, but she was thankful that Dhorma seemed to censor his explanation, his story, if only because she didn’t quite think Nessa was old enough to truly understand, to be exposed to the things that had happened. And it shouldn’t have surprised Clarke when she had broken down one night, had sobbed into her pillow at the images Dhorma’s words had conjured. She shouldn’t have been surprised when she had felt every pain she had felt, every fury she had experienced, come roaring back into her mind with an anger that seemed all consuming.

But above all?

Clarke shouldn’t have been surprised when she had felt Nessa’s small hand on her arm, when she had felt the girl wrap a fur around her shoulders and had stayed by her side without asking why she was sad, why she had cried, had not eaten more than she should have that night.

And it shouldn’t have surprised Clarke when all Nessa said was _friends help each other when they are afraid_ in answer to her apologising for waking her, for disrupting the girl’s sleep so late at night.

 

* * *

 

Winter slowly began to settle over the lands, and it was subtle at first, mornings would become colder, frost would seem to cling to the grass late into the mornings until one day it seemed to exist deep into the afternoon.

Clarke woke with a shiver, with a yawn and a gasp at the chill that crept through her bones. Thoughts, perhaps just flashes of pains, of nightmares she hoped would leave her be for a while, just barely touched the corners of her thoughts, and she knew her sleep had been fraught with guilt and angers.

But she shook her mind, stretched under the furs and tried to brace herself for the cold she knew would greet her naked flesh.

A banging on her door made her grimace just a little as it disturbed the quiet of the morning though, and Clarke knew it to be Nessa, if only because Alexandria’s sharp reprimand for the girl to leave her be could be heard followed by a hushed _sorry, Clarke._ But if she was honest with herself, she didn’t mind.

 

* * *

 

Clarke gasped, she couldn’t hold back the awe, the wonder, the way her mouth dropped open as she took in the lands before her. Though shallow, snow blanketed the clearing, dotted the trees and took hold of every nook and cranny to be found. Sunlight sparkled off the white, it shone brilliantly in the morning sun, and it seemed too unbelievable for Clarke to truly understand.

Nessa stood beside her, the girl’s hands stuffed into fur covered mittens. Alexandria seemed to be holding the girl back, and from the frown across the older woman’s face, Clarke was sure it to be for good reason.

“Nessa, do not roll in the sno—”

“Yes, nomon,” Nessa said as she looked up and smiled a recently gap-toothed smile.

Alexandria seemed to deflate, seemed to accept whatever shivering mess Nessa was to become in moments soon to be.

“She never learns,” Alexandria said with a quiet laugh as Nessa raced forward and jumped into the largest piles of snow under a tree.

And so Clarke fought back her own laugh for just a moment as she contemplated just how cold she might feel in the next few moments. But, as Nessa kicked snow up around her, as she sang out into to the morning air and let her breath freeze around her, Clarke thought it worth it.

And perhaps for the first time in a long while, as she raced forward, as she chased after Nessa, she found that the only thing she worried for, was if she would ever get over just how beautiful the snow was.

 

* * *

 

Clarke dreamt of flames that licked at her feet, she dreamt of growls that grew in volume until all she could hear were the vibrations coursing through her head. She dreamt that she ran, she dreamt that she bled, that she stumbled, that she was engulfed in flame and pain and anger and hurt and fury.

But, as she had come to realise, her dreams seemed to balance, seemed to seek reprieve from the dark, from the tumultuous. And so, if she was awake, it wouldn’t surprise her to find that she dreamt of lips pressed to hers, of a heart beat felt. And it shouldn’t have surprised her when she dreamt of pains not physical, of heart ache and heart break, and of betrayal, of hurt, of something that seemed to shatter her mind into pieces, that never strayed far from the things she experienced.

But why she dreamt of _her?_ Why she dreamt of things she wished never to dream of, was beyond her. If only because she had heard nothing of the woman who had broken her, had seen nothing of the woman who had left her ruined, who had made her feel weak, pathetic, naive.

And what could have reminded her of green eyes each time she woke? What could have reminded her of a jaw that was angled, that was levelled in such an infuriating way with each passing day? And what could have reminded her of things she wished to forget lest they consume her completely?

Clarke woke to conversation, hushed and careful, she woke to the sun still to rise, and she woke to the flickering of flame from underneath the door to her room.

Clarke knew she heard two voices, she knew she heard them muffled and quiet, and she thought Dhorma must have come early, must not be able to stay long, if only because she was sure Nessa would have been present, would have demanded to see him. And what other explanation could be given for the lack of Nessa’s youthful disregard for the hour if not for a wish to avoid disappointment at an early leave?

Clarke knew from the racing of her heart and from the tremble in her fingers that sleep would elude her for the rest of the early morning and so she rose, she slipped on thicker furs over her lighter sleep clothes and she couldn’t help but to gasp out ever so slightly as her feet touched the cold of the wooden floor. It didn’t take her long to feel her way in the dimmed light to her door, and it didn’t take her long of blindly fumbling for the doorknob.

And so Clarke squinted and blinked past the barest increase in light as she opened her door to reveal Alexandria sitting at the centre table, her head cocked to the side in worry and concern. Dhorma sat at the other end of the table, his hands resting against the table top and his eyes glancing ever so subtly to where Nessa’s closed door was, to where the girl still slept. But a newcomer sat with their back to Clarke.

And Clarke knew.

She knew she recognised the braids, she knew she recognised the clothes, the thick coat that draped down to the floor. She knew she recognised the intricate weave of hair, the shell of an ear she saw peeking out through the wild braids. And so Clarke didn’t quite know what to say or to do as the newcomer turned to face her.


	6. Chapter 6

Clarke wasn’t sure what to do, she wasn’t sure what to say, or even how she should act. The thought crossed her mind of rushing Lexa, of punching her squarely in the face, of slapping her, spitting in her face, of screaming at her or of simply turning around, slamming the door in her face and trying to wake from whatever dream she was sure she was dreaming.

But Clarke did none of those things.

Instead, as if on autopilot, as if in a trance and a daze, she found herself stepping forward, she found herself reaching for a chair and she found herself taking a seat at the other end of the table as Dhorma eyed her warily, as Alexandria seemed to worry her lip, and as Lexa simply stared with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

“We did not mean to wake you, Klark,” Alexandria said, voice low and careful.

“It’s ok,” Clarke answered, and it surprised her to find that her voice came out as steady as it did.

Alexandria pushed a small plate towards her then, atop it dried fruits and cheeses Clarke thought she recognised from her time at the Mountain, at Ton DC. And so Clarke reached forward, took a small handful and tried not to let her fingers shake too much for she was keenly aware of Lexa’s gaze that followed each motion she made.

“Why are you here?” Clarke asked, for she was sure now that Lexa had found where she had run, where she had fled, where she had hidden away for weeks, perhaps even months.

“I am not here for you, Klark,” and it came out simple.

But to Clarke, it felt like a slap in the face, it felt like insult and taunt.

And Clarke didn’t quite realise that she crushed whatever food was in her hand until she felt Dhorma’s gaze settle on her fully, until she felt him shifting ever so slightly from across the table as if preparing to leap forward, to intercept, to protect.

As Clarke tried to settle her breathing, as she tried to reign in whatever angers were beginning to seethe and twist within her mind, she realised Dhorma must have been a guard of sorts for he seemed ready to protect Lexa, seemed ready to guard her, was willing to do whatever it took.

“Klark,” Alexandria’s voice came out carefully, worried and a little cautious, but Clarke knew the older woman reached out in words to soothe, to ease, to lessen whatever angers must have been plastered across her face. “Clarke,” and Alexandria’s hand extended, closed around Clarke’s own clenched fist lightly and squeezed for just a moment.

“Sorry,” and Clarke let her fist ease, she let her fingers slacken, and she couldn’t help but to grimace at the mess she had made of the fruits and cheeses now pulped and crushed between her fingers.

But as Clarke’s gaze moved from Alexandria, she found that Lexa seemed to watch the interaction with a guarded depth that seemed oddly familiar, that seemed reflected in the way Alexandria’s head remained ever so slightly cocked to the side. But why she felt it so similar, she couldn’t quite tell.

Lexa leant back, pinned a napkin to the table with a single slender finger and slid it across the table top and towards her, and through it all Clarke found herself settling into the situation awkwardly. And if she wasn’t so spiteful, if she still didn’t want to spit in Lexa’s face, she would have thanked her, but instead, Clarke settled for silently taking the napkin and wiping her hand clean as sullenly as she could muster.

“To answer your question, Klark,” and Lexa’s voice seemed to break her stupor with an ease that sent a shiver down her spine. “I am here,” and Lexa paused for just a moment, for long enough that Clarke saw her look from Alexandria to Nessa’s closed bedroom door before settling back on her with an evenness that was betrayed by the barest hints of a racing pulse Clarke could spy strumming in Lexa’s neck. “To visit my nomon.”

Of all the things Clarke expected Lexa to say, it wasn’t that. She was sure that if she had taken a bite of the now ruined food she would have choked on it, she would have coughed it up.

And so Clarke stared, she knew her mouth gaped open and she knew her eyes must have widened. Lexa’s lips twitched up at the corners, and Clarke couldn’t help but to feel stunned, to feel at a loss for words. Her gaze snapped back to Alexandria to see the woman looking at her with worry in her eyes. But, as Clarke looked a little harder, as she looked a little closer, she saw what must have been in front of her the whole time.

Alexandria’s face seemed so very similar, and Clarke knew she had discarded that thought long ago, had not even quite delved deeper into the _why._ But now, as she stared, as she looked and studied, she could see the resemblance in the way light and shadow curved across the woman’s cheeks, in the green of her eyes and the barely dulled of her hair now graced with the hints of grey. Clarke turned to the painting that hung on the wall, she let her gaze settle on the girl, on the one who seemed to stare, to challenge and smirk more than smile, and she couldn’t help but to feel her heart beginning to beat, beginning to rage in her chest. And perhaps it was because she had somehow, someway wandered into a past she never considered, had been privy to something she felt was kept hidden from the world, was cherished and guarded with a ferocity that would never cease.

Clarke’s gaze snapped to Nessa’s door though, and she found herself looking between that and Lexa, between the woman who continued to look at her with a guarded mirth that barely let itself known to the world.

“I—” but Clarke’s words died upon her lips for she knew not what to say, she knew not what to do or think or feel.

And so Clarke did the only thing she knew how to do.

She rose, she turned and she fled into the dark of the night, into the cold of the forest, and into the solitude of the lands.

 

* * *

 

Clarke didn’t know how long she stumbled through the forest, she didn’t know how many times she tripped over branch and bush, she didn’t even know if her shoeless feet bled, bruised and hurt. All she knew was that a raging storm seemed to be cascading through her mind, and it was an anger, a fury, a despair and a shock all combined into something she couldn’t grasp.

Wind prickled her skin, the sole fur wrapped around her bare shoulders doing little to shield her body from the chill. But she came to a stop, she came to a pause beside a grand tree that reached up into the night.

Clarke sank to the ground, her back to the tree and she couldn’t even be bothered to register the discomfort as the bark scratched against her back. Clarke sniffled, she knew she cried from anger and pain, and she didn’t quite understand why it was now, after so many days and nights of quiet, that she seemed to have broken, that she seemed to have come apart with nothing more than a revelation and a truth.

Or perhaps she did know. Perhaps she knew it to be because she had been so blinded by the hope that something in her life was good, that something in her life was different. That something in her life was unrelated to pain, was unrelated to suffering and guilt and anger.

But she thought that it broke her to realise that what she had thought, what she had sought, had merely drawn her closer, drawn her deeper into a horror she found herself unable to escape.

Clarke thought it obvious though, she thought it so very obvious.

She thought it so obvious that Lexa was Alexandria’s older daughter, she thought it so obvious now that she knew. And she did so for the resemblances were there, if she had accepted, the mannerisms were there for her to see if she had looked just a little closer. Even Nessa, even the girl who had at times tried to act like the older sister who hardly visited, seemed to have been a sign, a flag in the sand, something to signal the truth that Clarke had refused to see.

But most of all, above the angers she felt raging to the surface, was the fact that she had lied to herself, had pretended, had ignored whatever warnings had been echoing out in the back of her mind.

“Klark.”

The voice called out to her carefully, its sound seemed rich, seemed full of warmth, of worry, of guarded care and uncertainty. And so Clarke sniffled, she ran a hand across her tear streaked cheeks and she grimaced just a little as she blinked away her pain. Lexa stood before her in a pool of the moon’s light, the woman far enough away that her shadow just barely touched Clarke’s own.

“Why are you here?” Clarke asked as she looked up at Lexa, at the coat that hung to the forest floor, to the hand she held resting atop that same knife tucked against her leg.

“I am visiting my nomon, Klark,” Lexa repeated carefully.

“No,” and Clarke shook her head in a motion she was sure must have seemed stubborn and pathetic. “Why are you here?” and she gestured to where Lexa stood. “You don’t care, so why?” and she didn’t know why she pushed, she didn’t know why she wanted to know such an answer.

But she did know. If only she listened to her heart.

“I—” and it was Lexa’s time to seem unsure, to be uncertain of what to say.

“Go away,” and Clarke pulled her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around herself and she let her lip curl into a snarl. “Go away.”

“Klark,” and Lexa’s eyes softened ever so slightly as she slowly came to her knees before her, as she settled herself on the forest floor and let her hands clasp in her lap in a motion that seemed so very diminutive, placating, tender and so very different to the warlord Clarke knew Lexa to be.

“Go,” and Clarke gestured outwards, to the forest, to the darkness around them. “Away.”

“Klark,” this time Lexa’s voice came kinder to Clarke’s ears, it seemed so very removed from the warrior Clarke knew her to be, and it seemed odd, seemed bizarre, seemed so very familiar. “It is not safe out here,” Lexa said a little more softly. “Please, return with me.”

And perhaps Clarke’s anger was greater than she had imagined, perhaps her fury was something she couldn’t tame.

And Clarke thought it so for she pushed off from the tree, she darted forward and she shoved Lexa hard in the shoulders, hard enough for the woman to rock back, to gasp out in shock, in surprise.

But Lexa moved, she moved fast, faster than Clarke could ever have imagined.

Lexa’s body shifted with the attack. Her shock was short lived and her hands snapped up, took hold of Clarke’s wrists and twisted, hard enough to break Clarke’s attack, soft enough that it only just barely hurt.

But before Clarke could quite make sense of her own actions, before she even realised what she did, she found Lexa rolling backwards, and she felt herself pulled with the woman as she absorbed the impact of her attack. Clarke gasped out in shock and surprise as she was thrown over Lexa’s shoulder, she gasped out in pain and fury as she felt her back slam into the forest floor and she grunted out in frustration as Lexa rolled onto her, as Lexa’s legs came to straddle her waist, and as the woman’s hands pinned hers to her sides.

“Klark,” Lexa hissed, grimaced and grunted as Clarke tried to shake the woman off her, as she tried to wriggle free, to find purchase from below.

“Get off me,” Clarke snarled through grit teeth.

“Klark,” and Lexa’s chest just barely rose, her eyes seemed just a little uncertain of what to do, and Clarke hated their proximity, she hated the fact that she could feel Lexa’s pulse strumming through the contact they shared, she hated the fact that she could feel the heat from Lexa’s body, and she hated the fact that she could feel Lexa’s breath as it just barely ghosted against her forehead.

“Get off me,” and Clarke thought of slamming her head forward, she thought of spitting up in the hopes of marring Lexa’s face. “Now.”

“Klark, ple—”

“Get off me,” Clarke’s voice rose in volume, she knew she snarled, she knew she thrashed more violently, she knew her anger was soon to bubble over, she knew she wanted to close her hands around Lexa’s throat, she knew she wanted to feel the strumming of her pulse beneath her fingers, she knew she wanted to press, to squeeze, to feel the life, the anger, the pain, the hurt, the betrayal. The lo—

Lexa’s grip on her wrists lessened, the woman paused for only a moment and then she rolled off Clarke, came to her feet and took a cautious step back, hands held up placatingly.

“Klark,” Lexa began, “we should return,” and Lexa gestured back to where Clarke assumed home was.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Clarke snapped as she came to her feet shakily. “Don’t tell me what to do,” she repeated as she turned on the woman, her fist clenched and her arms shaking.

A pause, something small, something considered.

And then, “hit me,” Lexa said, and the suddenness of her words, the change in tact, in approach gave Clarke pause.

“Excuse me?” Clarke was sure she must have gaped even more than she already did.

“Hit me, Klark.”

“No,” and Clarke didn’t know what else to say, other than _no._ If only because she wished not to do what Lexa wanted her to do.

“You will hit me and escape, or I will force you to return,” and Lexa levelled her chin, seemed to offer it to Clarke, perhaps in jest, perhaps in acceptance for whatever angers Clarke knew she sensed.

And the offer was enticing, it was charming, and Clarke couldn’t help but to wonder what it would feel like to unleash her angers, to let her fist collide with Lexa’s chin, with the sharpness of her jaw, with the curve of her cheek, and her nose, and her perfect face.

And so Clarke swung, she grinned as fiercely as she could as she saw her fist fly through the air, as she saw her knuckles close in on Lexa’s nose, as she anticipated the thump, the breaking of Lexa’s nose, of pain and anger and fury and—

Her fist met nothing but air, nothing but the emptiness left by Lexa’s step, Lexa’s dodge.

Clarke swung around with the momentum, she cursed and her eyes snapped to where Lexa stood just a pace away, her chin offered once more and her eyes guarded and cautious.

“You,” Clarke snarled, she hissed and she felt the anger returning. “You think this is a game?” and she swung again, this time she swung and she lunged, she tried to close the distance before Lexa could react, but the woman seemed to slip away with little worry and little struggle.

“Klark,” Lexa softly, her chest just barely rising, the motion, Clarke was sure, a stark contrast to the frantic rising of her own.

And it annoyed Clarke that she knew what Lexa did, that she knew Lexa toyed with her, did so to tire her, to make her more easily swayed, more easily convinced to return to the warmth of home, and yet, Clarke couldn’t bring it in herself to stop, to think, to not try hitting her. And it was pathetic, she was sure, childish, perhaps even bad, that she relished in the desire to cause pain, to cause hurt and anger.

But wasn’t it fair? Wasn’t it fair that Lexa experience just a little of what Clarke had experienced?

Clarke swung again, she kicked up dirt, she tried anything to distract, but all she felt was Lexa’s leg that hooked behind hers, that tripped her up and made her tumble to the ground in a mess of sleep furs and sleep clothes that did little to shield her body from the dirt and mud and stick and stone underfoot.

Clarke came crashing to the ground with a thump, she knew she tasted blood on her lip and she spat out a mouthful of mud, blood and saliva.

But what came next was the crashing realisation that she felt lost, she felt broken, felt as though she had been untethered, set free to drift the last of her breath in the vastness of space.

And it hurt, it hurt and it hurt more than she could imagine. All those dreams she had had, each one that had woken her to the night, each one that had made her toss and turn, shake and sweat, cry and plead to whatever or whoever listened, came crashing into her mind.

Clarke began to cry, and this time it was different to the tears of frustration and anger, it was different to the tears of desperation and futility she had cried. But for why, she couldn’t tell, couldn’t grasp, probably wouldn’t be able to explain.

Clarke sobbed into the dirt, she sobbed into the ground, into the mud and she knew that she must have looked pathetic to Lexa, she knew she must have looked deranged, grotesque, impotent and ghastly.

But she didn’t care. Didn’t care. Didn’t care.

“Klark,” her name was called softly, gently, the tone seemed to wriggle its way into her mind, into her heart, into the very fibres of her body.

But Clarke shied away from it, she shied away and she tried not to let herself fall into the trap, fall into the pain, into the hurt.

“Klark,” Lexa’s voice called out to her once more, and this time Clarke felt Lexa’s hands come to rest on her back, she felt unsure fingers, tentative and uncertain as they tried to ease the shaking of her body, as they tried to ease the pain Clarke felt coursing through her mind.

Clarke shifted, she shifted on the ground and she knew not whether it was to lean into the touch, into the hope that she wasn’t alone, or whether it was to escape its heat, escape the presence of the woman who tormented her dreams. But as Clarke did so, she felt the hard edge of the knife Nessa had given her press into her hip, she felt it shift, the felt its strap that had been tied to her waist since Nessa had give it to her.

And perhaps it was foolish, perhaps it was stupid, unthought, selfish and wistful. But it was an idea, an action, something to lessen the pain.

And so Clarke let her hand fall to the knife’s handle, she let her fingers close around its weathered leather, and she drew is slowly, carefully, for long enough that she could consider, could gauge right from wrong.

And then she turned, she spun around as quickly as she could, and she brought her hand up, she brought it forward, and she let the blade’s edge press against Lexa’s throat.

Lexa rocked back at the suddenness of the attack, she seemed to absorb the impact somehow, someway, and her body seemed to tense, to ready, to prepare to attack and to defend before conscious thought took over.

Clarke found both of them on their knees facing each other, her hand clutching at the knife held to Lexa’s throat, the other fisting around Lexa’s fur collar.

But what gave Clarke pause, what made her think, what made her reconsider whatever it was that she had first considered, was the way Lexa’s gaze held no fear, was the way Lexa’s eyes never wavered, never dared look away.

And they were close, closer than they had been in days, in weeks, in months. Perhaps ever. Clarke could feel Lexa’s heart beating underneath her hand from where it had seemingly released her collar, had come to rest just above the rise of Lexa’s breast, to where she could feel the woman’s heart as it beat steadily. Clarke could feel the warmth of Lexa’s skin against the knuckles pressed to her throat, and Clarke could feel Lexa’s breath as it ghosted against her lips.

“Klark,” Lexa whispered, and Clarke tried to ignore the way she felt the vibrations in Lexa’s throat, the breath that ghosted against her face. “I never meant to turn you into this.”

What broke Clarke was the acceptance, was the willingness she saw in Lexa’s eyes, in the longing and the regret she dared not recognise.

Clarke’s vision blurred, her lips trembled and her fingers shook as she let the knife fall to somewhere between them.

And so Clarke’s heart broke as much as her mind already had. And she couldn’t quite find it in herself to care that she cried once more, that she must have seemed pathetic, that snot must have dripped from her nose, that her face contorted as tears found purchase in her eyes.

And if Clarke had been more sane, she would have cared that she collapsed forward, that she buried her face in Lexa’s neck, that she sobbed and clutched so very desperately to the woman who had broken her. But most of all? Clarke seemed to recognise just why it had hurt so much that Lexa had betrayed her.


	7. Chapter 7

It took so long for Clarke’s crying to subside that she forgot who she cried into and who she clung to in her pain. She didn’t even notice the rising of the sun, or even the arrival of the morning sky. Perhaps, with each shuddering exhale, Clarke fought to ignore the way gentle breath ghosted against the shell of her ear, perhaps she even begged not to feel the beat of a heart she could sense through the contact she dared not embrace.

“Klark,” Lexa’s voice came out softly, gently, and small. “Klark,” again she heard her name called and spoken with a tenderness that seemed too foreign for her to grasp. And it wasn’t until the third time that she heard her name called that she realised that Lexa spoke her name not to catch her attention, not to pull her away from the pain, but to soothe, to ease, to reassure and to calm.

And maybe that realisation hurt, perhaps it stung and stabbed so very deeply into her core. But what if that was what she needed?

And so Clarke wiped her face on whatever fabric she could find, uncaring of whether it was Lexa’s or her own, and she cared not for how childish she must have looked, must have seemed, must have sounded.

“Why are you here?” Clarke asked once she was sure her breathing was controlled.

“Klark?” Lexa’s voice came out a question, uncertain, so vastly different to who Clarke knew the woman to be.

And it wasn’t until Clarke felt Lexa’s hands on her shoulders that she realised she still pressed her face to Lexa’s collar, that she still buried her face into the furs that lined the coat, that she even dried her eyes on Lexa’s clothing.

“Why are you here?” Clarke repeated, and she found that she could not turn her face away from Lexa’s body, that she could not pull away, if only because she feared what she would see within Lexa’s gaze.

“Klark?” Lexa’s voice seemed to lilt at the edges, its timber seemed to vibrate through her bones and wriggle into her mind.

“Why are you h—”

“Klark,” Lexa’s hands came to her shoulders a little more firmly.

And so Clarke couldn’t help but feel her anger flare, couldn’t help but to feel her fury begin to rise, begin to creep and build and build and bui— “Klark,” Lexa looked her in the eyes as she leant back just a fraction, just enough that the heat of her neck was no longer felt. “I could not understand what you were saying.”

It would have been funny. It would have been funny for her to realise Lexa questioned, not to annoy, but simply because her question must have been muffled by the furs she had pressed her face into, that she had wetted Lexa’s collar, dribbled and cried and smeared whatever she had upon Lexa’s clothes. And it would have been funny. But in another life.

It took Clarke a moment longer to realise she frowned, that her nose crinkled, that her lips turned down with that same annoyance and anger that she had felt building. And, if only because she thought it important to tame her angers, to not allow herself to fall into old habits, she smoothed her features, her face as much as she could, she blinked back the wet that still lived within her eyes, and she tried not to sniffle too obviously as she shifted back on the forest floor, as she tried to put even the slightest hints of space between them.

Through it all, though, Clarke knew she felt Lexa’s gaze never waver from her face, she knew she felt Lexa’s eyes as they took in every little detail she must have seen, and she knew Lexa looked hard enough to memorise, to sear into her mind.

“Klark,” Lexa whispered this time, and Clarke could tell Lexa looked to the tears that had streaked down her face, to the pain etched into her flesh.

Lexa’s hand seemed to raise ever so slowly, ever so gently, with a mind of its own, and Clarke let her gaze track the movements as Lexa’s hand seemed to reach forward, to want to brush away the pain, the tears, the agony upon her cheeks. But Clarke thought Lexa undeserving of anything, she thought the woman undeserving of giving comfort, of seeking reprieve from the pain she so clearly wished to wipe away.

And so?

“Don’t,” Clarke turned her face, her hand snatched out and gripped Lexa’s wrist to still her movements. And if Clarke squeezed too hard, if she let her nails dig into what little exposed flesh she could find around Lexa’s wrist, Clarke couldn’t tell for Lexa’s expression remained passive and too calm, too guarded. All together too revealing. “Don’t,” but Clarke wasn’t entirely sure what she wished to say, what she wished to voice now that her fury had been tempered enough, had been submerged deep enough under the surface that only the barest hints of emotions remained exposed to the world. “Just,” she looked away for the briefest of seconds. “Just don’t.”

Lexa nodded once, her hand, wrist still held in Clarke’s grasp, closed ever so slowly, much like Clarke imagined a lion, a tiger, a beast would retract its claws after a moment fraught with danger and surprise, perhaps even fear.

“Why are you here?” Clarke asked now that she was sure Lexa could hear.

“To visit my nom—”

“No,” Clarke shook her head, uncaring of the mess her hair had become. “Here,” and she gestured to the ground between them. “In front of me. In the forest.”

“It is not safe in the forests alone, Klark,” Lexa said.

“But it’s safe with you?” Clarke countered, and she knew her voice came out more childish than she intended.

Lexa looked away at that, and the expression Clarke saw, if only in the woman’s eyes, seemed dismayed, seemed full of more emotions than Clarke had seen before.

“We should return, Klark,” Lexa said instead of whatever else Clarke was sure she wanted.

A shiver ran through Clarke then, and for the first time she realised just how cold it was in the early morning, just how limply the furs hang from her shoulders, just how open to the cool of the air she was.

And so Clarke took in a breath, partly to steel her nerves, partly to try to clear her thoughts, to clear her mind, to try to think of something other than the angers burning in the back of her mind.

Clarke stood, she grimaced just a little at the pain of small rocks and sticks and stones of the forest floor that she now felt prodding at her feet, but she ignored it. If only because she wished not to show weakness, to show pain, not with the company she now kept. Lexa stood, too, the woman’s movements surely more poised, more elegant, more purposeful than Clarke’s had been.

And Clarke looked Lexa in the eyes, she made sure their gazes never wavered, never broke, and perhaps Clarke embraced the dark of the morning, perhaps she embraced the way the dawning of the new day seemed to cast deep shadows across Lexa’s face. And maybe she thought it too similar to her nightmares, too close to her dreams. Too painful.

“Fine,” Clarke said as she turned, and began to walk away. “Let’s go.”

But Clarke didn’t get more than five paces from Lexa before she heard her name called.

“Klark,” it came quiet, perhaps even timid and just barely anxious.

“What?” Clarke said as she turned to face Lexa.

And so Lexa looked away for the briefest of moments before turning back to face her fully, chin levelled, eyes hardened, and hand raised and pointed in the opposite direction that Clarke walked.

“Nomon’s is that way.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke wasn’t sure how long they walked in silence. But she knew it long enough for it to have moved so far into the uncomfortably awkward that she felt as though each step she took echoed out around them, mocked the silence that had settled and laughed in her face.

But, through it all, Lexa remained quiet, she remained calm, and she walked ahead, far enough that Clarke knew it to be purposeful, close enough that Clarke was sure Lexa could reach her in seconds if given reason to do so.

And perhaps that realisation hurt, too. And it hurt for Clarke wasn’t a fool, wasn’t so foolish as to ignore their shared past, their shared moments. And it hurt that Lexa acted the way she did, that she seemed to ignore turning away, seemed to ignore the betrayal, the anger, the pain and desperation.

Before long the forest opened up before Clarke to reveal the field dotted with flowers and the small house she had come to call home in her time hidden to her past. Dhorma stood outside, his gaze directed outwards, searching and just a little worried. Clarke saw him relax as his head turned to their presence though, and Clarke couldn’t help but to wonder if Dhorma had told Lexa of who she was, of where she was, or even just how long Dhorma had been in service to Lexa.

“Heda,” Dhorma said with a slight bowing of his head as he turned and opened the door to let them through.

Clarke saw Alexandria still sitting by the table, a cup of warm drink cradled in her hands, and her gaze seemingly focusing on little more than the steam that rose before her eyes.

And Clarke cursed herself then, if only because she thought it so obvious, she thought it so easily seen in the way Lexa came to sit opposite Alexandria, in the way both women’s eyes met, one whose shade of green was just barely lighter than the other.

And Clarke though it obvious in the way their hair seemed so very similar, in the way their faces seemed to curve in the light, in how shadows fell across prideful cheeks and sharp jaws.

“Sit, Klark,” Lexa said as she turned to her, and in the woman’s gaze was something Clarke knew not how to describe.

For just a moment Clarke thought of declining the offer, she thought of retreating into her room, of being rude. But she dismissed that thought as she saw the way Alexandria seemed a little unsure now, seemed a little timid, just barely seen through the confidence within her eyes.

And so Clarke found herself sitting at the opposite end of the table, Dhorma quick to take his place in the only free chair that sat opposite Clarke. And maybe, as the silence began to spread once more, as the awkwardness began to settle, Clarke came to realise her state of undress, of the sleep clothes just barely hidden by the fur, and to the way the others at the table seemed ignore it, if only to avoid causing embarrassment.

Alexandria cleared her throat, she seemed to turn her gaze more pointedly towards Lexa, an eyebrow raised and an expression that must have conveyed far more meaning within it than Clarke could ever understand for Lexa looked away for a quick second, she seemed to sigh, settle deeper into the chair and shift just a little too much for Clarke to reconcile the image before her with the woman she knew Lexa to be.

“I do not visit often,” Lexa’s voice broke the silence, her tone light and just a little gentle in an attempt, Clarke was sure, to not to wake Nessa from her slumber.

Clarke looked to Dhorma though, and she wondered once more, whether he had informed Lexa, but she saw nothing in his gaze, in the ease in expression now, in the way he seemed content to let whatever conversation was to happen flow around him without disrupting its natural course.

Clarke had questions, too, she had so many now that seemed to be filling her mind, and she wondered if Alexandria had known her connection to Lexa, had been informed of what had happened, or had guessed, had inferred, had felt the depths of Clarke’s sorrows. Clarke wondered if Lexa had come to visit her mother after months away, had found just a little spare time now that the Mountain had been destroyed, enough time that she could steal some for herself, to see her mother who Clarke thought had missed much of her life, to see her younger sister who so clearly wished for her to visit more than she did. Perhaps even selfishly, Clarke wondered if Lexa had come to see her, but Clarke thought that unlikely. She thought that unlikely simply because she didn’t think Lexa that sentimental, that caring, that longing, if only because Lexa had cast her aside with seemingly little care or worry or regret.

“Sorry,” Clarke blurted out as she turned to Alexandria, to the woman who had been mid sip of her drink. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

But Alexandria shook her head, seemed not to take offence, seemed far too understanding.

“It is ok, Klark,” and Alexandria’s head nodded for just a brief moment. “It was a sho—”

Alexandria’s words were interrupted by the careful scraping of a door, a tired yawn and a sniffle.

“Nomon, I—” Nessa’s words died in her mouth as her eyes widened, as she seemed to register who sat around the table, at who looked at her full of an emotion Clarke had never seen in those eyes before.

Nessa shrieked, it came out shrill, far too loud and sudden for the night, and Clarke felt more than saw Dhorma flinch to the sound and she saw Alexandria’s frown spread ever so slightly. But above all else?

Clarke watched as Lexa’s lips broke into a fierce smile, as she slipped from her chair, came to kneel on her knees and spread her arms wide as Nessa rushed forward and came into a crushing embrace with her.

And it was shock, it must have been shock, emotional whiplash of sorts, for Clarke found happiness, found regret, angers and loss and frustrations and something else come rearing into her thoughts. And she thought all those emotions did so for her brain was surely incapable of dealing with the surprise of Lexa’s appearance, with the revelations that had been revealed, with the angers and pains and hates she had felt, and to the muted awkwardness and stubborn refusal to do more than sullenly sulk on their return through the forest.

Clarke’s ears pricked up to the gushing of Nessa though, and she found herself listening as Nessa began to talk so quickly that Clarke could hardly follow, and she found Nessa’s words shift from english to some other language as quickly and easily as any warrior Clarke had met since crashing to the ground.

But Clarke was sure Nessa blurted out all she could think of, all she could remember, all she had experienced since Lexa had last visited. And it took Clarke a moment, it took her seconds, perhaps even a minute, but she found the realisation of why Nessa seemed to rush out her words sad, she found it heartbreaking, she found it full of an emotion she dared not face.

And she felt all those things for she realised Nessa expected not that Lexa would stay long, not that Lexa would be able to share in even a day, in even a single conversation.

Clarke’s gaze shifted from Nessa’s beaming face to Lexa’s, who nodded along with every word that was heard, with every tale told and story spoken. She thought Lexa lost in the moment, she thought the woman uncaring of any other than Nessa who had now pulled out the knife Dhorma had given her, that Clarke now realised Lexa must have given her, she watched as Lexa smiled, as she seemed to focus so very hard on what Nessa said, on the way she gestured with the knife, on the motions she made.

Clarke felt it again though, she felt that stinging in the back of her mind, the burning, the pain, the shock and the whiplash. And so she looked around herself, she looked to Dhorma who eyed the door to the outside ever so slightly, as if he tried to see the forests, as if he tried to sense any that may approach. And Clarke looked to Alexandria, to the woman whose gaze, Clarke now noticed, was directed not at either of her daughters, but at her, and perhaps Clarke couldn’t face the expression that seemed to live within Alexandria’s eyes, perhaps she couldn’t even try to face the happiness on Lexa’s face that contrasted so very much with what and who she knew Lexa to be.

So Clarke stood as carefully and as quietly as she could, she knew Nessa wouldn’t notice her absence, not immediately at least. And she knew Lexa wouldn’t notice either. Or perhaps she simply hoped.

Clarke slipped away from the table and into her room, she let the door close behind her and she found herself coming to sit on the edge of her bed, her arms wrapping around the knees pulled to her chest.

Clarke tried to shift through all the things that now existed in her mind, she tried to organise the thoughts, the confusion and uncertainties. She thought that maybe she was more lost than she had first believed, maybe she was more broken than she could have ever imagined. And maybe it was what she deserved. Perhaps living a life full of unknowns and uncertainties was all she could do now.

A knock sounded out through her room. Clarke looked up to see a shadow creeping in from under her closed door, but she could still hear Nessa’s voice talking, she could still sense the girl’s eagerness and excitement through tone alone.

“Come in,” Clarke said and she blinked away the surprise as she realised she had cried, that tears fell from her eyes and dropped onto her forearm. But she didn’t care, not when she thought she knew who would enter her room.

And so Clarke tried to smile past the pain as Alexandria slipped inside through the slight opening of the door she made, the opening enough for Nessa’s voice to come just a little more clearly before the door closed once more.

Alexandria seemed to take her measure then, and Clarke wondered what the woman saw, she wondered if she saw the broken person she felt herself to be, she wondered if she saw something more, something less, or something that wasn’t quite anything.

“I’m not trying to be rude,” Clarke said, and she hated the way her voice seemed to break right at the edges of her words.

“It is ok, Klark,” and Alexandria sat beside her, seemed to consider pulling her into an embrace before dismissing the thought.

“I—” but Clarke choked on her words for she didn’t know what to say, how much to explain, or even how much Alexandria knew of Lexa, of her, of their shared past, of the things Lexa had done.

“My daughter hurt you,” Alexandria said then, and her words came out sure, careful, simple and fact.

Clarke couldn’t do much more than to simply nod once, the motion answer enough.

“You did not know she was my daughter, did you?” but the question seemed more statement to Clarke’s ears.

And again she nodded in answer.

“I did not mean to keep it a secret,” and Alexandria seemed to apologise in tone. “ But it is something I have guarded,” and Clarke couldn’t blame Alexandria for guarding such a fact, for keeping it hidden. And it made sense, it made sense now that she thought about it. And it made sense for Alexandria to take Nessa away, whether by her own volition, or by Lexa’s. Clarke couldn’t blame either one of them for wanting to keep the other safe, for wanting to make sure they were hidden away from the world. And she couldn’t for she remembered what Lexa had told her of Costia, of the love that had been stolen from her, who had been murdered, killed, taken before her time.

“I don’t blame you,” Clarke said as she shook her head, wiped away a tear once more. “I don’t blame you.”

“Lexa does not visit often,” Alexandria said. “I did not know she was coming to visit tonight,” and Alexandria sighed, seemed to deflate just a little at a memory long since gone. “I do not need to know what Lexa did. What you both experienced in your shared pasts,” and Clarke wasn’t sure whether she wanted Alexandria to probe, to make her confront, or to leave it be, to never speak of it again. “But if you wish to talk, if you wish to tell me,” and Alexandria paused, seemed to consider, to ponder, to struggle with whatever thoughts came to mind. “I will be here if you need me.”

And wasn’t it strange? Wasn’t it ironic? Wasn’t it so very fateful that the woman that now promised to listen, to be there for her if she was needed, was so very similar to the one Clarke had needed once?

Maybe that was what her life had turned into though, a joke, a cruel taunt heard on the wind.

Or maybe it was a sign, a ray of light in the dark, a flickering flame at the furthest point of an endless path onwards, or even the smallest tip of an iceberg that kept hidden below the surface all her demons, all her angers, all her pains, all her regrets and losses. And maybe even love.


	8. Chapter 8

Clarke’s eyes opened slowly. Sunlight filtered in from the smallest of cracks in the roof, its light just barely able to touch the wooden floor of her bedroom. It took her a moment to remember what had happened only hours earlier, but as she began to recall, as she began to remember, she found herself not sure what to think or even how to react.

And so she buried her face into the furs, she pulled the warmth around herself more tightly into her body and she tried to shy away from the cold, from the conversation, from the interactions she was sure were to come when she would eventually step forth from her room.

It was childish, too, she knew she couldn’t hide away forever, she knew she couldn’t avoid the future, and yet she couldn’t find it in herself to care. At least for a while.

But the sounds of life broke her quiet, and they were sounds of feet moving to and fro outside her door, they were sounds of things being moved, of things being prepared, perhaps even foods and supplies being readied. Voices could be heard, too. And as Clarke tried to listen, tried to gauge who still remained, she was sure she could hear two voices in quiet and careful conversation.

Clarke was sure she heard Nessa though, she was sure she heard the girl’s laugh, the joy and the youth that seemed not to care for the world, for the struggles of those that had endured more than they should. But that, too, Clarke didn’t blame the girl for. And so Clarke sighed, she flung the furs from her body and she gasped out just briefly as the cold wrapped her in a sudden embrace.

Clarke wondered how long she had slept for as she dressed more fully, each piece of fur she wrapped around herself a shield to the cold. She even wondered what had been talk about, if things had been awkward, if Nessa had questioned, had discerned the _more_ of her shared history with Lexa.

And so, as Clarke stepped from her room? As she closed the door and turned to face those voices she had heard? She was surprised to find Alexandria sitting at the table, Nessa in the kitchen with a piece of fruit in her hands and a woman sitting opposite Alexandria.

And this woman’s hair was black, perhaps so black that it seemed tinged with the faintest signs of red. Her hair was straight, intricately braided and woven into place purposefully and precisely. The clothes she wore were layered leathers, patterned stitching decorated the dark browns, rich and vibrant. And Clarke knew the woman’s clothes to be ornate, to be intricate, part armour and part ceremonious. Clarke even spied weapons that seemed to litter the folds of her clothes, small daggers, some, Clarke was sure, were for throwing, others in easy reach if needed.

The woman turned to her then, eyes careful, pale, somewhere between grey and blue. And she was striking, Clarke thought, striking in the way her jawline seemed prideful, strong, angular and determined. Even the way her eyebrows arched just subtly at the ends seemed to convey challenge and mild annoyance.

“Hi,” Clarke said, and she knew her voice came out awkward and timid.

The woman smiled though, and it seemed careful, genuine and sure.

“I am Jaxta,” the woman said in way of greeting as she nodded her head.

Clarke looked around for a moment, perhaps in search of Dhorma, of Lexa, of something to explain who the woman was and why she was there. But Clarke saw no signs of either of them, and so her gaze returned to Alexandria had had already reached to pull out another chair for her.

“Sit, Klark,” Alexandria said, her voice easy, but Clarke was sure she sensed a slight strain in the way Alexandria spoke. “Dhorma and Heda left earlier.”

“Oh,” and Clarke wasn’t so sure what else to say.

“Morning, Klark,” Nessa said as she waved to her from behind the kitchen counter, mouth half full of a bite she had just taken.

“Hey,” and Clarke smiled, if only because Nessa seemed to always be capable of stripping away her darker thoughts with a cheery smile and youthful innocence.

Nessa gestured outside then, eyes squinted as she peered out a shuttered window.

“I am going hunting,” Nessa said as she wiped the back of hand across her mouth, and Clarke knew the girl’s words to be equal parts statement as it was offer for her to come, and so Clarke smiled, thought it couldn’t hurt, and began to respond.

“Let Klark wake, Nessa,” Alexandria chided.

“No,” and Clarke smiled, shook her head and already turned for the small pack that had been gifted to her. “It’d be good for me to get out,” and as she said that, she couldn’t help but to think, if only for a moment, that she ran from whatever conversations she was sure were to have been had between her and Alexandria.

Alexandria’s eyebrows quirked together for just a moment at that, and Clarke was sure the older woman considered something for a moment as her gaze moved to Jaxta before she seemed to accept whatever it was she considered.

“Ok,” and Alexandria turned to Nessa, seemed to eye her pointedly before turning back to Clarke. “Nessa will wait for you outside,” Alexandria continued then, and Clarke deflated, just a little, if only because she now knew conversation couldn’t be avoided, and for a little moment, as Alexandria turned to her more fully, Clarke found herself feeling like a young girl in front of her mother, whose reproachful gaze seemed to make her shrink in on herself. But honestly, Clarke knew it to be nothing more than a sign that she was cared for, that others worried for her, and so she sighed, she sat more steadily in her chair and she waved to Nessa who bounced from the kitchen and to the door, one hand reaching out to grasp her pack and bow and quiver of arrows.

But Clarke also saw Jaxta stand easily, the woman quick to fall into step beside Nessa, gaze seemingly shifting from easy to focused, cautious, careful and measured. And Clarke thought she recognised the signs of a hunter, of a warrior, of someone ready to attack and to defend. But then Nessa slipped through the front door with a cautious smile over her shoulder, Jaxta quick to follow as the door closed with a gentle thud.

“Klark,” Alexandria’s voice pulled her gaze back to the older woman, and in the green eyes, Clarke saw worry, saw caution.

“I’m ok,” Clarke said, and she nodded as if to convince herself.

But Alexandria didn’t seem to be so convinced, if only because her lips pursed and her hands came together on the table, fingers intertwined.

“You were not fine earlier,” Alexandria said, and Clarke felt her ears burn just a little at the way Alexandria seemed to see more than she let on.

“I hope I didn’t ruin the moment for Nessa,” Clarke said, and she felt a stab of guilt at the possibility of ruining Nessa’s surprise.

“You did not,” Alexandria answered with a shaking of her head. “She did not notice your disappearance,” and Clarke sighed, relief, however slight, enough to sway her guilt.

But, as if on command, as if a crack had suddenly turned into a fissure, Clarke thought of all the angers she had felt hours ago, days ago, perhaps almost even months. She felt all the guilt, all the helplessness, the revulsion and she didn’t know what to do other than to bite her lip in an attempt to stifle the pained whimper she felt building.

“Klark,” Alexandria reached across the table, let her hand close around Clarke’s that rested against the table top.

“I’m ok,” Clarke lied, shook her head and looked away in the hopes of shielding Alexandria from her pain.

“You are not,” Alexandria answered, and her words seemed to probe more forcefully now, as if she tried to force her to confront her past. “You are not ok, Klark,” and Clarke hated the way Alexandria clicked out her name in a way that tormented her memories.

Clark looked away, looked out a window and to the trees and blue sky and sunlight, and she fought to control her emotions, she fought to stop her voice from quivering, if only so that she could shield Nessa, who must be waiting for her outside, from her pain. And Clarke thought it pathetic that this seemed to happen again and again and again. But she couldn’t find it in herself to care, not in the moment.

And so Clarke closed her eyes, took in a deep breath and held it for as long as she could, for so long that her lungs seemed to scream out for her to release her breath, to let herself feel the rush of air fill her lungs.

And so she did so, and this time her breath came out even, steady.

She looked Alexandria in the eyes then, she made sure her words would be understood, would be visible for all to see. And it was a realisation, a recognition of the way things were, that little things, unrelated things, things that seemed not to be connected in any way, would always bring her mind back to a time she wished not to remember. But Clarke knew she would need to face her past, but not now, not in a few days from now, perhaps not even for months.

But one day.

“I’m ok,” Clarke said as she smiled, but she knew the motion to be sad. “I’m ok knowing that I’m not ok,” and she shrugged, the motion somewhat bashful, somewhat unsure. “And that’s good enough for me,” Clarke said.

Alexandria seemed to ponder her words then, seemed to consider them for a long moment, seemed to even try to find any hidden message in them.

“Ok,” and Alexandria smiled, the motion kind as it crinkled the corners of her eyes.

That was what Clarke thought she needed. And that was the acceptance to find her own path without being pushed, without being judged.

And so Clarke smiled as she heard her name called from outside, Nessa quite obviously having grown impatient.

“Nessa waits for you,” Alexandria said with a smile, their moment seemingly washed away with Nessa interruption.

 

* * *

 

Nessa seemed happy, seemed more energetic than she had in days, and Clarke thought it because Lexa had visited, had stayed for however long she had. But, perhaps Clarke didn’t quite feel so complete herself, if only because Lexa’s appearance had been so brief, had been so full of heated emotions and then nothing, that she had barely had time to adjust to the revelations and realisations. And now she found herself with only her thoughts and memories to sort through whatever emotions she felt raging in the recesses of her mind.

“You met Lexa at the Mountain,” Nessa continued, and Clarke looked at the girl to see her eyeing her cheerfully, toothy smile firmly in place as she continued walking through the forest without much care for the noise they made.

“I did,” Clarke said, and she thought Nessa unaware of the past she shared with Lexa.

“She says you led your people into battle,” and Clarke tried to fight back the flinching across her face.

“I did,” and Clarke looked up to find Jaxta looking at her, gaze intrigued yet guarded.

“And she says you—”

“Hush, Nessa,” Jaxta interrupted, and Clarke couldn’t help but to laugh just once as Nessa’s mouth clicked shut and glared at the other woman.

“Wh—”

“We are hunting,” Jaxta interrupted once more, and Clarke wondered whether Jaxta and Nessa knew each other as well as Dhorma, she wondered just why Jaxta was even here.

“You are a handmaiden,” Nessa continued, and Clarke couldn’t help but to think Jaxta’s narrowed eyes held humoured annoyance.

“Yes,” Jaxta said simply.

“Why are you here?” and perhaps at the suspicion in Nessa’s voice, Clarke thought that Jaxta was as foreign to Nessa as she was to her.

“To help,” Jaxta said easily.

But perhaps, for just a moment, Clarke thought Jaxta a little too quick to answer.

“Now hush, Nessa,” Jaxta continued. “Or we will go hungry tonight.”

 

* * *

 

It was quiet, it was cool, dark and still. The forest barely breathed around them as they crouched in the shadow of a great tree. The forest floor stretched out in ever direction, and as Clarke looked out at the small deer that grazed upon the forest floor, she couldn’t help but to feel the barely there regret and guilt that their actions would lead to its death.

Nessa shifted ever so slightly beside her, the girl much more eager to strike, and Clarke watched as Nessa drew her bow back ever so slowly, its large size still comical in her hands. Even Clarke held a bow, the way it sat in her palm not quite so comfortable yet, but Clarke knew in time she would get better.

But Clarke also sensed Jaxta readying to strike, and as she glanced to the woman, she watched as the bowstring was drawn back in one easy motion, she watched as Jaxta’s eyes focused, and as her stance seemed to steady and firm beneath her.

Jaxta looked to Nessa from the corner of her eye though, and Clarke knew it to be a way of telling the girl to fire if she wished, that she would be given the honour of striking first if she so desired.

And so Clarke looked to Nessa, and she couldn’t fight the smile as Nessa’s face scrunched up in concentration, as she bit her lip and drew the bowstring back even further until it brushed against her lips.

And then she fired.

Nessa’s arrows snapped forward with a quiet twang. But Clarke thought something was off, if only because Jaxta fired barely a second after Nessa had done so, and as Clarke continued to watch, she saw Nessa’s arrow dip, begin to curve to the ground and then strike the top most edges of a bush that lay between them and the small deer. But Jaxta’s arrow sliced through the air far more quickly, its path straighter, sharper and more angry as it whistled forwards.

The deer must have sensed the threat though, for its head shot up, it looked around, but not fast enough to react, not fast enough to escape, and so Clarke grimaced for only a second as Jaxta’s arrow struck it clean in the head, the point punching through with a sickening crunch before the deer collapsed to the ground with one last grunt of surprise. Clarke stood with Jaxta, and as she glanced down to Nessa she saw the girl scowling at her misfire.

“You almost got it,” Clarke said.

“Maybe,” and Nessa slung her bow over her shoulder as she fell into step beside them.

“You must aim higher than you think, Nessa,” Jaxta said as she moved towards the deer.

Nessa did little more than hum at that though, but Clarke found herself looking at the woman, if only because Jaxta had drawn another arrow, had knocked it to her bow and her gaze was turned outwards and to the forest.

“We’re hunting another?” Clarke asked.

“No,” Jaxta answered with a shrug.

And from the way Jaxta looked at her with a quiet frown, Clarke didn’t think she should push the observation, at least not yet.

“Now come,” and Jaxta smiled as she looked down at Nessa. “I struck the prey, you must carry it.”

Nessa scowled a fierce thing then, but Clarke didn’t think Nessa minded, not so seriously anyway, if only because the girl muttered what was sure to be colourful curse under her breath, only for Jaxta to laugh a little more freely.

 

* * *

 

“So,” and Clarke ducked under a low hanging branch, the small deer Nessa should have been carrying slung over her own shoulders. “You’re a handmaiden?” Clarke asked.

“Yes,” and Jaxta looked over her shoulder and to Nessa for a brief moment as if checking on her.

“What’s that like?” Clarke asked, and perhaps she found herself intrigued by the life that she had been so unaware of, of the things hidden to her that she had now stumbled across simply by accident.

“It is a life of servitude,” Jaxta answered as she turned back to face the way they walked.

“So you’re a servant?” but Clarke was sure there must have been more to being a handmaiden than that, if only because she could see Jaxta’s body was covered in small knives, that the leathers, part clothing and part armour, were far more intricate that the armour she had seen warriors wear.

“Not quite,” Jaxta said. “I serve the Commander in all things,” and she paused as she looked outwards and into the surrounding forest.

“She must do anything she is told to do,” Nessa said from beside her, and Clarke knew she saw Jaxta’s eyes narrow a fraction in feigned annoyance at Nessa’s seemingly oversimplification of Jaxta’s role.

“Only the most successful seconds are chosen to be trained as handmaidens.”

“I see,” and Clarke thought it fascinating, she thought it so very different to what she had first thought when she had realised that the ground was inhabited by more than just mutated beasts.

“We are trained to protect, to serve, to guard,” Jaxta continued.

“So you’re a bodyguard?” Clarke questioned.

“Perhaps,” but from the way Jaxta paused once more, Clarke thought she hadn’t quite understood Jaxta’s role. “But not quite,” and Jaxta smiled as she stepped over a fallen tree trunk, careful to keep the bow still drawn in her hands, pointed away from either Clarke or Nessa. “We do not follow Heda into battle,” Jaxta said. “The royal guard do that,” and Clarke thought back to the times she had seen Lexa with warriors, mostly men who had been far larger than was normal, and she remembered Gustus, the man who had seemed soft spoken at times, ready to violence when required, and protective enough to have given up his life for what he had thought right. She even found herself thinking of Ryder, of the man who had seemingly replaced Gustus, who had been ready to strike Octavia down with a well placed arrow only for her to intervene.

“I think I met some of them.” Clarke said, and she saw Jaxta nod.

“You would have met Gustus, Ryder, perhaps others,” and Clarke seemed to think she saw a sadness behind Jaxta’s eyes.

“So if you aren’t a royal guard,” and Clarke trailed off in search of how to put word to her question.

“Royal guards are there to threaten, to intimidate, to be seen, to make any who would think of attacking think twice,” Jaxta said. “Handmaidens should not be seen, we are chosen because many underestimate our capabilities,” and Jaxta looked at Nessa yet again, as if seemingly reminding herself that the girl was still with them. “We gather information if required, eliminate threats if needed,” and she shrugged. “We serve Heda.”

“Oh,” and Clarke thought that it made sense for there to be royal guards to draw the attention of most, and for those who operated in the shadows to be never mentioned, to be often overlooked. “How long have you been a handmaiden?” Clarke asked, and as she looked at Jaxta, she thought the woman to be in her thirties, to be old enough to have seen and done things, and to have survived far more than Clarke was sure she could imagine.

“As long as I can remember,” Jaxta answered. “I have served three Commanders,” and perhaps at that Clarke sensed Nessa scowl, albeit to herself, as if Jaxta’s words made her think of things unpleasant and unwanted.

But as Jaxta’s words began to settle within Clarke’s mind, as she thought over what Jaxta had said, Clarke found the revelation odd, if only because it seemed to make her stomach twist and knot and churn.

And it was the revelation that Jaxta had served three Commanders, that she seemed not to be much more older than her early thirties at most, even the fact that Jaxta’s words had caused Nessa to scowl, to seem to grow just a little more distant, was enough for Clarke to realise what Jaxta’s words truly meant.

“Now come,” and Jaxta must have sensed the darkening of the moods around her, if only because her words came out more cheerful. “I will prepare a mighty meal for us victorious hunters.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke felt full, fuller than she had felt in ages. Perhaps it was because her state of shock at the days events had left her feeling drained, but whatever the reason, she had felt far hungrier than usual.

And so now, as she sat behind Nessa, the girl’s hair held in her hands as she tried to braid it, Clarke found herself thinking to times that now seemed so long ago.

She remembered the first days of arriving to the ground, of fearing the wild animals, the serpent that had attacked Octavia. She remembered the moment she had realised that they were not alone on the ground when Jasper had been struck by the spear. She remember the days of fear, of panic, of anger and hurt and loss. She remembered every little detail, every little thing that had happened to her, and she was sure why her mind ket bringing her back to her past, she wasn’t sure why her memories seemed to want to be relived with each waking moment.

All she knew was that it happened, and that in times like this, she could do little more than experience every emotion that bubbled to the surfa—

“Klark?” Nessa’s voice broke her revelry, and as Clarke blinked away the memories she found Nessa peering over her shoulder, gaze careful as she frowned.

“Sorry,” Clarke whispered as she realised that she had been pulling on Nessa’s braids a little too hard. “I got lost in thought.”

“It is ok,” Nessa said as she turned back to face forward, the girl once more bringing a whetstone across the knife she had been gifted.

Jaxta and Alexandria both stood in the kitchen, both women happy to clean, and as Clarke tried to watch Jaxta as innocuously as she could, she was sure she saw things, she was sure she sensed a _more_ to why the handmaiden was here.

And perhaps it was the fact that Jaxta seemed not to have let any of her many blades be laid across the table top where other weapons had been laid to rest, perhaps it was the fact that she had not changed into softer clothes like Alexandria wore, or that Clarke wore herself, and maybe it was also the fact that at every little sound that made itself heard, Jaxta would pause for just a moment, for not even half a second, but it was enough that Clarke thought the woman listened, categorised, sorted and analysed the sound before discarding it with an nonchalance that seemed too well rehearsed.

Or maybe Clarke had simply become paranoid now that she realised she lived with Lexa’s mother, with Lexa’s sister, in what must be the only place Lexa felt like she could show her true self.

Maybe Clarke just simply looked for evidence of _something_ since she had missed what must have been so obvious to her.


	9. Chapter 9

Clarke dreamt of desperation, she dreamt of fear, of walls closing in on her. Each breath she tried to take never seemed to give her enough air for it to be comfortable. She felt cold, too. She felt cold hands claw at her, pull her, twist her and bend her in ways and directions she couldn’t even imagine.

Even the beat of her heart seemed twisted, seemed erratic, seemed to her like a bird lost in the wind, its direction unknown, its struggle futile. She called out for help, she called out for release, for someone or something to lessen the pain, to remove whatever barriers seemed to be holding her in place.

But no answer came, no relief was had and no pain was lessened.

Clarke woke to a hand on her shoulder, she woke to a grip that shook her, that rocked her into consciousness and seemed to ground her in whatever present she found herself. She opened her eyes to the dimmed light of an early grey morning. Light just barely trickled in from the cracks in the roof, the tapestries that hung from their places on the walls glowed with the light of the new day and the cold that had seemed all encompassing within her dreams now took hold of her body with a vibrancy that stole her breath and chilled her mind.

Clarke blinked just once, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and she found herself face to face with Jaxta, pale grey eyes brilliant in the cold light, dark hair, braided and ever so fierce, flowing down past her shoulders.

“You cried out,” Jaxta said as she released her hold from Clarke’s shoulder.

She didn’t know what to say to that, and she didn’t for she thought it too personal to explain, too personal to share with someone she knew not, with someone she knew little of.

“Yeah,” Clarke said, and she hated the way her voice seemed a little hoarse to her own ears. “I didn’t wake anyone else, did I?” Clarke asked, eyes looking out past Jaxta and to her closed bedroom door.

“You did not,” Jaxta said as she shuffled back a fraction before coming to stand. “Nessa is outside with Alexandria.”

“Oh,” and though Clarke felt the tired still cling to her mind, though she still felt the warmth of her bed call to her in the cold morning, she thought it unwise to retreat back to whatever restless slumber she had endured, and so she pulled the furs from her body, embraced the gasp that she couldn’t hold back and she let her feet meet the cold of the wooden floor as she sat over the side of her bed.

Clarke took Jaxta in, and she eyed the clothes the woman wore, the dark of the fabric, the intricacies of the leather and metalwork that seemed equal parts ornamental and functional, and Clarke thought it must take more than just a few strained minutes to wear, she thought it far too interwoven to be so easily removed, so easily discarded at the end of a long day.

“You have questions, Klark,” Jaxta said, and Clarke saw curiosity that seemed just barely tinged with a guarded caution.

“Something’s wrong,” Clarke said, and she didn’t quite know why she thought something to be wrong, she didn’t know why she even expected Jaxta to answer. But she thought it so from Lexa’s appearance, from the things she had said and from Jaxta’s own appearance.

“Something is wrong?” Jaxta asked, and this time her voice came careful, inquisitive, too light. At least to Clarke.

“Yeah,” and Clarke rose, reached for the small knife Nessa had given her, and she didn’t miss the way Jaxta’s eyes followed the motion as she tucked it into the waistband of her sleep shorts.

“Nothing is wrong,” Jaxta countered, one eyebrow raising.

“I’ve been here long enough to know Dhorma only comes once a week. I’ve lived here long enough to know that no one else comes here,” and Clarke gestured around them, to the forests beyond the walls and the lands that dipped and rose as they pleased. “Tell me I am wrong,” and Clarke lifted her chin, hardened her voice as much as she dared.

But Jaxta simply shook her head, shrugged and moved to her door.

“I am unable to answer that question, Klark,” Jaxta said, and from the way she looked her in the eyes, Clarke was sure Jaxta spoke honestly.

“But there’s a reason you’re here, isn’t there?” Clarke stepped closer, one hand pulling the loose furs a little more tight around her shoulders. “There’s a reason Dhorma isn’t here, there’s a reason you’re here instead,” and Clarke pointed to one of the many knives she saw tucked into Jaxta’s clothing. “There’s a reason you have so many knives on you,” and Clarke saw Jaxta’s face go calm, its smoothness hard to read, hard to judge. “There’s a reason you — a handmaiden — are here, and not just a warrior.”

Jaxta’s mouth opened just once, and Clarke thought she older woman juggled with whatever orders she had been given and whatever things she wished to confirm or deny, and as Clarke narrowed her eyes a fraction, as she tried to see whatever hidden thoughts Jaxta held within her mind, she couldn’t help but to feel a slight curling of her stomach, if only because she knew something must be wrong, something had to be wro—

A shout of surprise echoed out around them, and Clarke recognised it to be Nessa’s voice, Clarke even heard footsteps, Nessa’s, she was sure, as they raced over the grass and grew more and more distant, but she also heard Nessa’s laugh, Nessa’s eagerness for whatever it was that had now appeared.

Jaxta looked outwards and to the sound, one eyebrow raising in curiosity before she turned back to face her, and as Clarke met her gaze she thought she saw an acceptance, or perhaps a simple acknowledgement upon the woman’s face.

“Perhaps Heda will explain,” Jaxta said.

 

* * *

 

It was odd, Clarke thought, as she looked out from where she stood at the front door’s threshold. For some unknown reason Lexa had reappeared after only been gone for little more than a day. Nessa stood in the distance, Lexa knelt in front of her, and from the way Nessa’s hand moved animatedly, Clarke was sure the younger girl rushed out word and thought and eagerness without much worry. Clarke saw Dhorma a short distance from them, the man’s eyes seemingly turned outwards and to the forest, to the shadows and the trees.

Alexandria stood next to her, and though it wasn’t obvious, Clarke was certain she sensed a frayed edge to Alexandria’s stance, to the way her fingers fidgeted by her sides.

“Something’s wrong,” Clarke said simply, quiet enough that it wouldn’t travel on the wind and reach Nessa’s ears.

Alexandria took in a deep breath, seemed to think over what she had said, and Clarke even saw her look to Jaxta who stood close by before back to her.

“Perhaps,” and Alexandria grimaced past whatever thoughts filled her mind.

And perhaps it was still shock, perhaps it was still fear, her own denial and reluctance to face her actions, but Clarke found herself unsure of exactly it was that she felt, she didn’t know whether she had grown so accustomed to not knowing that even now, with Lexa standing a spear’s throw from her, she couldn’t put her finger on what exact emotion it was that she felt swirling within her mind.

That uncertainty was compounded by the fact that Jaxta had appeared, that the handmaiden who seemed so ready for violence had, within a day, seemingly become another member of whatever it was Clarke found herself a part of.

“Does Nessa know something’s wrong?” Clarke asked.

“No,” Alexandria said, her own voice quiet, stiff. “She is simply happy to have her sister visiting,” and Clarke couldn’t help but to feel a slight tugging in the corners of her mind at yet another mention of the life Lexa seemingly had lived in secret, had kept from her, and would, Clarke was sure, have kept from her for years had she been able to do so.

“Do you know?” Clarke asked, and she didn’t mean to sound so accusing, she didn’t mean for it to come out with as much bite as it did, but perhapsshe didn’t blame herself so asking the question the way she did. But for why, she didn’t know.

“It is not serious,” Alexandria answered, and Clarke watched as Alexandria turned to her fully, smiled, and seemed to be as sincere as she could.

And yet, Clarke thought it not the truth, if only because she thought there had to be more, there had to be a reason.

Clarke looked up at the sound of feet approaching to find Lexa striding towards her, Dhorma by her side and Nessa ever present at her heel, the girl’s eyes wide as she took in the mighty red sash that swung with each step Lexa took.

And perhaps for the very first time since Lexa had first appeared, Clarke realised just how awkward it was, just how uncomfortable things were. Maybe it was the fact that she had held a knife to her throat, that she was sure that if any of Lexa’s warriors had seen, they would have intervened, would have attacked her, perhaps even taken her life. Maybe the awkwardness was also due to the fact that Clarke had cried, had sobbed so uncontrollably into Lexa’s body, had broken so openly before her. Or perhaps it was the simple fact that she still lived with Lexa’s family, that things were awkwardly pushed aside now, that things had been so left unsaid, unspoken, that it seemed almost blasphemous to mention more than just in passing.

Or maybe Clarke was a coward, maybe she was too afraid to face, too afraid to confront.

But that, she thought, was unlikely. If only because she found herself glaring at Lexa who approached, if only because she knew herself to be too stubborn to give up whatever angers, whatever furies and frustrations and hurts that existed within her mind.

“Klark,” Lexa’s voice broke her from her thoughts, and Clarke blinkedto find Lexa standing before her, the woman’s eyes guarded, Nessa by her side and looking up at her.

Clarke was sure she sensed Alexandria looking at her too, and from the way Dhorma’s eyes seemed narrowed in her direction, Clarke was sure a glare was forming cross her face.

“Ca—” Clarke swallowed, her voice for some reason more dry than it had been just moments earlier. “Can we talk,” she added, and she was thankful that her voice didn’t waver as much as she realised her heart beat frantically. “In private?” and she gestured around them, the motion awkward and far to obvious and robotic to be anything but a sorry attempt to distract from the silence that now existing between everyone present.

“Yes, Klark,” Lexa said, her head inclining ever so slightly. “Nomon,” Lexa said as her eyes met Alexandria’s, and even that gave Clarke pause, for she still couldn’t quite believe how this circumstance she found herself in came to be.

And so Clarke smiled a quiet thanks to Alexandria as the older woman stepped aside in clear invitation for them to enter the home free of interruption, even Nessa made to follow Lexa though, but Dhorma’s large hand came to rest atop the girl’s head and ruffled her hair in distraction before Clarke saw him guide her away.

Clarke followed Lexa inside, the door quick to close behind them, and as the thump of the door closing and the steps of those outside began to fade into the near distance Clarke found herself now entirely unsure, entirely disarmed, entirely awkward.

Lexa stood in the centre of the living space, one hand resting atop a chair back, fingers drumming against the wood lightly. And though it had been not even two full days since Clarke had last seen her, she was sure shadows existed under the woman’s eyes, she was sure a tightness was present in the way Lexa held herself, and she was even sure that Lexa’s hair seemed just slightly dishevelled, a braid or two perhaps out of place by the smallest of fractions.

Perhaps the realisation that she even registered Lexa’s braids to be out of place made her teeth grind, made her jaws clench and her eyes narrow in something between self-loathing and fear.

“Klark,” Lexa said, her voice rich, full, commanding in the silence. “You wished to talk?”

“I—” Clarke swallowed. “I did.”

Now, as she stood face to face with the woman who had betrayed her, with her emotions more in control than they had been in the forest, Clarke found herself unsure of what to say. Perhaps it was because she had imagined just what she would say, how the conversation would go, that she had thought she had even planned for every little thing Lexa could say, and how she would respond.

But whatever the reason, Clarke found herself at a loss for words.

And so she settled for the simplest of things.

“Why are you here?” she said, and she didn’t quite mean for it to be the same thing she had repeated in the forest, she didn’t even quite realise until Lexa’s eyebrow arched and her lip twitched ever sos lightly.

“You ask me t—”

“No,” Clarke’s hand came to her forehead, if only because she didn’t quite know if Lexa meant to be so infuriating, so frustrating.

Clarke realised her heart beat rapidly though, and she tried not to let the shaking of her fingers be too obvious as she took in a deep breath, tried to settle her heart and her thoughts. And perhaps it took only a few short seconds, but it was long enough that the silence stretched on for longer than it needed, for long enough that she knew Lexa remained quiet on purpose.

“I’m not stupid,” Clarke said, and she made herself look Lexa in the eye, she made herself think through the emotions, the good and the bad, that clung to her memories, that tinged them every shade of red imaginable.

“I did not think you were stupid, Klark,” and again Lexa clicked out her name in a way that seemed too purposeful, too carefully pronounced to be anything but a conscious decision, but for why, Clarke couldn’t tell.

“You don’t come here often,” Clarke said, and she gestured around them. “Maybe even never,” and she didn’t miss the barest flinch across Lexa’s face. “That much is obvious from Nessa,” and Clarke gestured with her chin outwards and to wherever she thought Nessa and Alexandria were under the watchful gaze of Jaxta and Dhorma. “Dhorma, too,” Clarke continued. “But he’s here more than normal, and now Jaxta?” and Clarke wondered just how much Lexa must trust Dhorma and Jaxta. “She’s never unarmed, she’s always wearing armour.”

“Yes,” Lexa said, and this time her back straightened, her chin levelled and her eyes seemed to harden.

“And now you’re here twice in as many days.”

“Yes.”

“What’s going on?” Clarke said.

Clarke stared Lexa in the eyes, she seemed to wage a war of silence within her mind, and Clarke didn’t even know if she wanted to hear whatever it was that had made Lexa arrive, had made Lexa seek her out. But Lexa seemed to come to a decision for she blinked, looked away in thought and then looked back to her.

“You are called Wanheda,” Lexa said.

“What?”

“The Commander of Death.”

At that Clarke felt her skin go clammy, she felt her mind freeze and her lungs deaden. And she knew, she knew why she was called that, perhaps some sick part of her wasn’t even surprise, and maybe some even sicker, even more twisted and wretched part of her relished in the fact that she could be tormented with the things she had done by being given a name, a title, something so fitting.

“After you destroyed the mounta—”

“No thanks to you,” she couldn’t help herself, she couldn’t.

“You became Wanheda. The Commander of Death.”

It sounded vile to her ears, and Clarke didn’t even know if she wished to ever say the name aloud.

“Many believe that if they kill you they will gain your power,” and at that Clarke found herself barking out a laugh full of bitterness and disgust.

“You think I’m powerful?”

“Many do, Klark,” Lexa said.

“So what?” Clarke challenged. “You’ve brought your guards here to make sure no one takes my power? That only you can use me?” Clarke didn’t know where the venom came from, she didn’t know where the hate came from, she didn’t even know who it was directed to.

But of all the things Clarke thought Lexa would have said or how she could have reacted, it would have been something other than what she did. And it was so for Lexa seemed to fracture for the briefest of moments, and Clarke saw a pain on the woman’s face, she saw a hurt, something sincere, something honest. But something far too fleeting for it was gone before she even quite registered the change of emotions.

“No,” Lexa said. “I searched for you — as did others — for days,” Lexa ignored the snarl that Clarke let loose at that. “Many hunted for you, from other clans, from Trikru itself, those who thought your death would grant them the power to control all they wished to control.”

Clarke felt sickened, she felt nauseated by the memories that came crashing to the surface, that assaulted her mind with the smells and the sights and the sounds of bodies burning alive, twisting, bubbling, boiling and frothing from every orifice, every open wound and sore and countless places she knew not how to describe.

And perhaps to shield herself from her past and the truth of her realisation in the forest, Clarke found herself lashing out in word and venom.

“I don’t need your protection,” she said, and she grit her teeth and took a step back. “I don’t want your protection.”

“You may not want it, Klark,” Lexa said. “But you will have it.”

“You disgust me,” and Clarke didn’t know if she lied, if she told the truth, if she even believed it to be true. “You think you can use me? You think after everything you’ve done you can dictate my life? How I live?”

“I do not think so, Klark,” Lexa began.

“No,” and Clarke stepped forward, her lips pulled back into a snarl, one finger pointed as she closed the distance and poked Lexa hard in the chest. “No,” she shook her head. “After Finn? After blaming Raven for the poison? Gustus? After Quint? After the Mountain? After turning your back on me? You think it’s a game, you think it’s a joke?” Clarke didn’t even quite know if she made sense, she didn’t even know if she meant to make a point of all their shared pains, their shared experiences and losses, or if she even made sense. “You think you havea say in how I live?” and she jabbed one last time into Lexa’s chest for good measure.

“I will not apologise for my actions,” Lexa said, and her hand snatched up faster than Clarke could ever anticipate, Lexa’s fingers closed around her wrist and brought her hand away from her with a rapidness that betrayed the calmness of her voice. “I did what was best for my people.”

“Bullshit,” and Clarke shook her head.

“You may not believe it,” Lexa ignored. “But it is the truth.”

“I don’t.”

“I did not think you would,” and Clarke couldn’t help but to roll her eyes at Lexa’s words.

“Then why even tell me?” Clarke asked as she pulled her wrist free of Lexa’s grasp. “Why?” and she settled her hands on her hips, one resting atop the knife Nessa had given her.

“You asked, Klark.”

“I didn’t,” and she didn’t, or she didn’t remember asking, or she had confused herself so much that now Lexa played games, tried to confuse, tried to shift the conversation.

Instead of answering, Lexa’s gaze seemed to follow her motions though, and Clarke watched as Lexa’s eyes settled lower, settled onto her hip, to where her hand lay atop the knife.

She saw something then, and perhaps it was another fraying of Lexa’s facade, perhaps another glimpse behind the curtain, but Clarke was sure it was perhaps one of the only real emotions she could ever trust upon Lexa’s face going forward.

“Nessa gave it to me,” Clarke said, and she remembered Alexandria telling her of the knife’s first owner.

“I suspected as much,” Lexa said, and her voice came out the same as it had once done in her tent what seemed like years ago. But something seemed to change, something seemed to harden in Lexa’s eyes for she stepped back, took in a deep breath and let her eyes close for only a fraction of a second before they hardened and seemed to hide away whatever emotions Lexa had allowed to be seen.

Lexa turned for the door, she seemed to walk more stiffly than she had done moments ago, and Clarke wondered what it was that had triggered the change, but perhaps Clarke was too stubborn to let Lexa retreat without a fight, perhaps she was too prideful to let the conversation end on Lexa’s terms.

“You never answered my question,” Clarke called after her, and she watched as Lexa stopped midway to reaching for the door handle.

And so Lexa let her motions still, let her shoulders relax just barely, and for why Clarke didn’t know, but she thought it just another victory, if only because it seemed as though she had worn Lexa down, had made her defences crumble just that little bit more, all in the hopes of forcing Lexa to feel even a fraction of the agonies she felt with each waking moment.

And Clarke expected to see annoyance in Lexa’s eyes, she expected to see frustrations, angers, a stubborn smirk perhaps, but when Lexa turned, when Lexa’s gaze met hers, all Clarke saw was a sadness, was a caring, an openness she dared not accept was for her alone to see.

“I have lost my father, Klark,” Lexa began, and this time Lexa’s voice seemed more quiet than it had ever been. “Anya, Gustus,” and Lexa paused, seemed to war with the next of her words, “Costia,” and perhaps for the briefest of moments, Clarke regretted ever opening her mouth. “While you live with the last of my family Jaxta will remain to guard you,” and Lexa looked away, seemed to blink back a pain that had settled within her mind.

“I—” Clarke didn’t know if she meant to apologise, she didn’t even quite understand why she thought it important that she did so, especially after the things she felt Lexa had done to slight her. But Lexa cut her words off with a quiet shaking of her head.

“I will not risk losing anyone else.”


	10. Chapter 10

Clarke woke to a humming that lilted through her bedroom door. Sunlight steamed in from the little gap at the bottom of the door and she thought it must have been just past early morning, early enough that the sun only just begun to rise in the sky, but late enough that the lands had already begun to warm for the day. She pulled the furs from her body after a brief pause, and she couldn’t help but to grimace to the cool chill that settled over her.

Clarke dressed as quickly as she always did, if only because she new wished to be a burden, never wished for Alexandria to regret ever offering her a place to stay. And so Clarke ran her hands over her hair, the braids just a little messy, and she rubbed the sleep away as she reached for the door.

Clarke stepped out of her room to find Nessa sitting at the table, one hand splayed out as she drove her knife between her fingers perhaps a little too quickly for Clarke to think of it as anything other than too nauseating for her to take. But Nessa never seemed to shrink away from the danger, even seemed intent on trying to repeat the motions faster and faster with each passing day.

But Nessa slammed the knife down with a finality, looked up and smiled as Clarke came to sit in a chair opposite the girl.

“You’re getting better at that,” Clarke said, and she watched as Nessa smiled, her teeth brilliant in the dimmed morning light, and perhaps for just a moment Clarke thought she saw one shift just a little, its place in the girl’s mouth soon to be replaced by a gap.

“I have not cut myself in months,” Nessa said as she slid off the chair, it’s height only just too high for her.

“I see,” and Clarke couldn’t suppress the smile at the thought of Alexandria fretting, only for Nessa to ignore it.

Clarke took a moment to think over the things that have happened in the last few days then, and she wondered if Nessa understood that something was strange, she wondered if the girl had grasped the fact that a handmaiden was sent to protect them, that Lexa seemed to consider something more dangerous than usual, that she would even come and visit multiple times in such a short amount of time.

Part of Clarke wondered if Nessa purposefully ignored whatever signs her sister’s appearance must mean though, if only so that she could hold on to the moment without worry. And Clarke couldn’t blame Nessa, not for that.

“Where’s everyone else?” Clarke asked, and she looked around as she took note of Jaxta’s disappearance, at the lack of Alexandria, of even Dhorma or Lexa.

“Nomon went outside with Jaxta,” Nessa replied with a shrug as she scrunched the side of her face up in thought. “Told me to stay inside.”

“I see,” and Clarke smiled at the way Nessa huffed at a strand of hair tickling her nose, and not for the first time, Clarke found herself wondering what Lexa might have been like in another life, in one where she had been able to grow into something different, something kinder, something less sullied by a broken memory. But Clarke shook her souring thoughts and reached for a piece of fruit that lay on a plate not far from her left hand.

“I think we are moving,” Nessa said, and at that Clarke looked at the girl to find her looking out a partly opened window, her eyes faraway, and her expression somewhere between uncertainty and eager apprehension. “Nomon has not told me everything,” Nessa continued. “But Lexa does not come often. Dhorma, too. But I have seen them both so much,” and Nessa shrugged, looked back to Clarke. “Maybe we do not have to stay in the forests so alone anymore.”

“Maybe,” and Clarke knew not what else she could or should say to that, if only because she didn’t want to ruin the girl’s hopes, didn’t want to cause her anymore worries than she already had.

“And Jaxta,” Nessa added. “She is a handmaiden. They serve Heda only,” Nessa paused, looked down to the knife still stuck in the table, its craftsmanship intricate, precise and wonderful. “Maybe she is here to learn what we like,” and though Nessa’s words seemed muted, Clarke was sure she sensed a growing sense of wonder in her voice, in the way her eyes sparkled just a little in what little of the morning sun’s light broke through the shuttered windows. “And then take us to Polis?” and it came as much question as statement.

“Have you ever been?” Clarke asked, and she couldn’t help but to remember Lexa’s offer what seemed like so long ago.

“No,” Nessa shook her head. “Never. But it is big. All the clans live there and it is amazing,” she added. “At least that is what Nomon has said.”

“Maybe we’ll go together,” Clarke offered with a smile, and she found herself enjoying the way Nessa’s eyes crinkled at the corners just like Alexandria’s did, she enjoyed the way the girl’s braids crowned a youthful face, and perhaps Clarke enjoyed all that she saw for she thought Nessa full of innocence, full of wonder and a kindness that was surely too naive of the world.

“I would like that,” Nessa said, and this time she smiled a little more freely, her thoughts clearly going to places far removed.

 

* * *

 

Clarke ran hard, she ran fast, but not as fast as Nessa ran, not as elegantly as Jaxta leapt over fallen tree branch after fallen tree branch. The sounds of her breathing filled her ears, and she knew it seemed more ragged than any person born to the ground, she knew it to be more broken than even a child’s. But she didn’t mind, or perhaps didn’t care. Not when she eyed the small animal that darted in and out of nook and cranny.

And though Clarke understood she must take life, though she understood that the animal, in some way, felt fear, panic, pain and even suffering, she had accepted that some things must happen, some things must exist. And she told herself that if she did the things she now did with a purpose, with an understanding, with the knowledge and the weight of her past actions, then she thought it not to unpleasant, not so overwhelming, not so devastating. If only because she understood.

And so she came to a skittering halt as Jaxta slid to a stop much more gracefully. Jaxta’s feet widened as she slid on the wetted forest floor, as her stance lowered, and she drew back her arrow with an elegance that made Clarke’s imagination sing.

And it only lasted a second, perhaps not even a full one, but it was elegant, it was purposeful, and smooth. Jaxta sighted down her arrow’s shaft, took in a steady breath, and Clarke watched as the woman fired, her arrow snapped forward and struck the animal in a sickening quick strike.

Clarke looked down to Nessa who had come to a stop beside her, and she barked out a laugh as she saw Nessa’s eyes widened in awed shock at just how easy Jaxta had sighted the animal.

“She is too good,” Nessa whispered as she looked from Clarke to Jaxta, and Clarke was sure she heard Jaxta laugh quietly under her breath.

“Come, little heda,” Jaxta called over her shoulder, the woman already walking to where the animal lay dead on the forest floor.

Nessa frowned at the name, and Clarke was sure the girl considered whether Jaxta had the right to call her such a thing, but Clarke thought Nessa didn’t mind, not when she simply shrugged to herself and began to walk forward, one hand settling her own too large bow over her shoulders, the other awkwardly placing an arrow back into her quiver as she tried not to make a fool of herself.

“Here,” Jaxta said as Nessa came to a stop beside the handmaiden. “I caught it,” and Clarke knew where Jaxta went, she even saw Nessa roll her eyes. “You must carry.”

“But I carried it last time, too,” Nessa complained, one hand on her hip, the other already reaching for the animal Jaxta held out to her.

“And who caught it last time?” Jaxta answered with a raised eyebrow, and perhaps for only the slightest of seconds, Clarke wondered whether Jaxta had ever spoken in such a way to Lexa when she had been younger.

“What of Klark?” Nessa argued as she pointed to her.

“Klark will clean and cook it,” Jaxta said with a smile as she stood and wiped her muddied hands on a loose end of fur hanging from her belt.

Nessa made an unimpressed scoffing sound at that, but, from the way Jaxta simply smiled, knocked another arrow to her bow and began to lead them away, Clarke thought it purposeful that Jaxta remained unburdened by the weight of any animal, hands readied upon her bow, and eyes turned outwards as they walked through the forest.

 

* * *

 

“Where is Dhorma?” Nessa asked.

“Near,” Jaxta replied as they continued through the forest, the sound of birds and the wind the only thing to really break the comfortable silence around them.

“Near?” and Clarke looked down at Nessa beside her to see the girl frowning in thought.

“Yes,” Jaxta replied as she ducked under a low hanging branch.

“Why does he not stay with us if he is near?” Nessa pushed.

“He is staying in a camp,” Jaxta said, and Clarke felt an emotion tug at her heart as Nessa’s eyes widened, seemed to grow more excited.

“Is it close?” Nessa asked, and Clarke knew what Nessa wanted to ask, what she wanted to do.

“Close enough,” Jaxta answered, and Clarke’s eyes narrowed a fraction as she watched Jaxta’s gaze shift ever so slightly.

“Are there more people there?” Nessa continued. “More warriors?” and she paused for only a second to take in a breath. “Is Heda there? Is that why she is able to visit so much now?”

“Heda has many things she needs to do,” Jaxta said.

“That does not answer the question,” Nessa countered as she hefted the animal more comfortably across her shoulder.

“Perhaps,” Jaxta said and she shrugged. “But it is the truth,” and she looked down at Nessa and smiled. “It is best you ask your nomon these questions.”

 

* * *

 

And so the next few days passed in much the same way. Clarke at times woke to Alexandria still present, the woman happy as she listened to Nessa. Sometimes Clarke would wake to find that Alexandria was absent, that the woman had left Jaxta in charge of watching over Nessa for however long it was that she was gone, and Clarke was sure that Alexandria visited Lexa, she was sure things were being discussed that were not for Nessa to hear, and perhaps part of Clarke wanted to be present, wanted to know what happened. And yet there were parts of her that said she was happy to live in ignorance, to be only as aware as she needed to be of whatever things happened. Perhaps she was being paranoid though, perhaps that little wriggling in the back of her mind, that made her think Jaxta took her role too seriously, was simply because she did. If only because Heda must have commanded her to be overly cautious, overly protective.

But that also made Clarke remember the things Lexa had said, of being wanheda, the Commander of Death, and of others who wanted her power, wanted her life. And perhaps Clarke should have considered just what that meant for her more than she currently did, but she discarded that thought simply because she wanted to. And she did so for she cared not for the things she had done, she wished not to relive them, and she thought the best way of moving forward, of ignoring that constant aching in the back of her mind, was to simply live a life in content ignorance.

At least until she thought she was ready to do something more than to live with Alexandria and Nessa, to help with whatever chores were required, to do as much as she could to ensure they had enough to eat for the next day.

Maybe that was what she needed though, was a life void of life altering decisions, with her only responsibility being to ensure Nessa didn’t wander off too far alone, or that the small fireplace had enough wood to keep the home warm for the night.

But most of all? Past the pain of the things she had done and the guilt of having wandered away from those she had known? Of finding a new home with strangers that had slowly become more? It was the fact that no one expected more from her, no one expected her to make decisions for them, no one expected anything from her.

And perhaps that was enough for Clarke, perhaps that was enough for her to overlook the constant reminder that was Alexandria’s piercing green gaze, or Nessa’s youthful face that reminded her of a pain she hadn’t quite forced herself to face since having first seen Lexa at the table in the middle of the night. Clarke knew she would have to face that little problem eventually. But for now, she wouldn’t worry. Not until she needed to.

“Klark,” she looked up to see Alexandria eyeing her cautiously, a knife held in one hand, the other outstretched in wait.

“Sorry,” Clarke answered as she shook her head and passed the peeled root she held in her grasp.

“You were thinking,” Alexandria said simply, and Clarke knew the woman said so only to tell her that she would listen if Clarke wished to talk, or would move on to a different subject if she wanted.

“I was,” Clarke answered and she bit her lip as she took another root from the small bucket. “Lexa’s close, isn’t she?” and perhaps facing her demons head on was the best thing for her to do.

“Yes,” Alexandria said, and Clarke never could get over just how quickly Alexandria diced the root, the knife in her hands sure and exact in motion.

“Why?” Clarke asked. “Doesn’t she have things to do in Polis?”

“Yes,” Alexandria said with a tired sigh. “But she worries,” and Clarke wondered if Alexandria felt it overbearing that her home tucked away from all others had suddenly become much more busy, even if it was only two newcomers.

“Is it actually dangerous?” Clarke asked, and perhaps for the very first time she began to consider what it meant that others seemingly hunted her, seemingly wanted to steal whatever misplaced power she was to have.

“No,” Alexandria said, and she laid the knife down on the cutting board, eyes hardening just enough that Clarke knew Alexandria had guessed where the conversation was to go. “It is not dangerous enough for me to send you away,” Alexandria shook her head, one strand of hair falling out of place only to be tucked back with a slight flicking of her head.

“I don’t want to put you or Nessa in danger,” Clarke countered, and she made sure to look Alexandria in the eyes. “I mean it,” and Clarke watched the light play with the green of the other woman’s gaze. “If there’s even a chance—”

“—Klark.”

“I mean it,” she pushed. “You’ve been kind to me,” and she reached out, squeezed Alexandria’s hand. “Kinder than I have any right to,” and she bit her lip in thought. “You’ve let me stay in your home—”

“You have helped.”

“I have,” Clarke said. “But I want you to know,” and Clarke shook her head as if to clear the muddied thoughts from her mind. “If there’s even a chance that things are getting dangerous, I want to know. I want you to tell me,” and she tried to let her gaze be as honest and open as it could.

There was a pause, long enough that Clarke knew Alexandria understood, knew she accepted her determination, her honesty and offer. “Nessa would be very angry with me if I let you leave,” Alexandria said eventually, the corners of her lips twitching up.

“She would be,” Clarke answered with a laugh.

 

* * *

 

Water lapped at Clarke’s calves, each little moment of pressure just enough for Clarke to know that time still passed. Nessa stood beside her, the girl’s breath shallow, her eyes directed down and into the water, to the shimmering black shapes that moved back and forth not far from them. Jaxta stood on the river’s edge, the woman’s hands on her hips and her own eyes, Clarke was sure, holding a slight humour as she looked at them both.

Nessa had insisted that Jaxta sit out for this hunting trip, had insisted that she or Clarke be the ones to catch the fish. And so Clarke now found herself in cool water as she tried to ignore the barely there ache in her arm as she tried to keep her aim steady.

Clarke glanced down to Nessa once more, and she couldn’t help but to feel envious of the way the girl’s posture seemed so much more perfect than hers, that the girl seemed content to hold her bow drawn fully back as she gauged just how far away the fish was.

But Clarke also saw the concentration in the girl’s eyes, she knew it was a matter of honour and pride for Nessa to be able to strike a fish, that she hadn’t quite been able to do so just yet. And so Clarke thought she would let Nessa fire first, if only because she thought Nessa _did_ have a better chance of catching than she did.

The fish slowed, and Clarke knew she sensed Nessa stiffen before forcing herself to relax, and as Clarke turned her attention fully on the fish she saw it begin to circle in search of food or in search of something, it’s attention elsewhere. Nessa’s bow creaked just barely, the sound hardly heard over her own breathing. Clarke pulled back her own bow, she tried to imagine the arrow flying forward, and she tried to picture what it would look like, how it would feel when she let the arrow loose. But, as she stilled her breathing, as she prepared to release she heard a twanging snap.

Nessa fired, the arrow snapped forward, and Clarke watched with bated breath as the arrow punched the water with barely a splash. Ripples radiated outwards, Nessa gasped and then the fish floated to the surface, its body twitching as blood pooled out around it.

The laughter of joy and surprise rang out around them and Clarke didn’t even try to fight the smile as Nessa bounded forward, water splashing out around them as other fish darted away in surprise. Nessa scooped the fish up with the arrow, its powerful body and large size enough to for Nessa to need to brace her elbow against her hip as she hefted it into the air. Jaxta’s clapping from the riverbank echoed out around them too.

“Good shot,” Clarke said as Nessa joined her, both of them already halfway back to the river’s edge.

“Yes,” Nessa said past the smile splitting her lips. “It was.”

Clarke couldn’t blame Nessa for sounding prideful, wouldn’t even hold it against her.

“Let me,” Clarke said as she reached for the fish, one hand already unwinding the string used to tie the fish in place.

“I wish nomon was here to see this,” Nessa said as she bent down and picked her small pack up from the ground.

“You can tell her all about it when we get back,” Clarke said, and she eyed Jaxta who seemed to already be looking outwards and to the forest, her mind already clearly thinking about their return.

“I will catch another tomorrow,” Nessa said as she looked up and smile. “Then she can see me do it, too.”

Clarke smiled as she reach out, ruffled Nessa’s hair briefly, and she couldn’t help but to laugh as Nessa mimed leaning forward and biting her hand.

 

* * *

 

The walk back to their home seemed more more energetic, more carefree, or perhaps it was Nessa’s gentle humming that made it seem so. Clarke didn’t mind it, neither did Jaxta from the way the woman walked ahead, her head bopping ever so slightly to whatever tune Clarke was sure was familiar to her.

The fish hung from Clarke’s shoulder, its body gently slapping against her with each step. Nessa walked beside her, too, the girl’s hand resting atop her knife, the other swinging back and forth lazily.

“Jaxta,” Nessa said then, and Clarke looked to the woman to see her look over her shoulder.

“Nessa,” Jaxta responded.

“You are good with a bow,” and Jaxta nodded as she turned back to face the way they walked, bow held in her hands, an arrow knocked but not drawn.

“I am,” Jaxta said.

“When did you catch your first fish?” Nessa asked, and Clarke couldn’t help but to laugh, if only because she knew Nessa now tried to judge her performance against someone who so clearly was a skilled archer.

Jaxta looked over her shoulder then, the corner of her mouth quirked up in mirth.

“Younger than you, little heda.”

Nessa scoffed, “was it bigger than my fish?”

“I do not remember,” Jaxta said with a laugh. “Perhaps,” but she paused. “we did not often have fish so large where I learnt to hunt.”

“That means mine was bigger,” Nessa whispered up at Clarke, her face far too smug.

“I heard that,” Jaxta said.

“I said noth—”

A piercing horn echoed out around them, its sound sudden, violent.

Jaxta froze mid step, her body tensed and Clarke saw the change, she saw the shift, the way Jaxta’s eyes widened before narrowing. And Clarke knew, she knew and she saw.

It happened in not even a second.

Jaxta spun, she lunged forward and grabbed Nessa. Nessa shrieked out in shocked, too, but before she could do anything Jaxta begun to move fast.

“ _Run_.”

It was all Jaxta needed to say, all Clarke needed to hear. And Clarke felt her blood freeze, she felt her fingers go clammy and she felt her heart begin to race, and she did so for she had never heard Jaxta’s voice so hardened, so violent, so icy.

And so Clarke ran, she ran hard, she ran fast. Jaxta raced ahead, Nessa’s bewildered cry of shock already fading as she seemed to realise something wrong had happened. And it was all Clarke could do to keep up, all she could do not to fall, not to tumble and trip. But somehow, someway she managed to keep pace with Jaxta.

Clarke didn’t know what that horn meant, she didn’t know who had blown it, who or what was in the forests. But she couldn’t help but let her memories take hold, couldn’t help but to feel the fear, and she remembered running from the pauna, she remembered running from the grounders when first they had landed on the ground, she remembered the reapers, the acid fog, the terror and the unknown.

Clarke heard the crashing of bush being trampled, of stick being snapped and underbrush being flattened, and before Clarke could quite pinpoint the sound Jaxta spun to face her mid stride and seemingly threw Nessa at her with such force that it almost seemed comical.

Clarke managed to catch Nessa, she grimaced as one of Nessa’s elbows slammed into her jaw and she fell to the ground, arms wrapped around the terrified girl’s body. Clarke saw Jaxta draw her bow, aim in the direction of the sound. A shape emerged from the shadows a split second later, and Clarke let out the breath she realised she had been holding as she recognised Dhorma.

But her blood froze once more, her breath came out ragged and broken as she saw his face.

“Run,” he said, one hand wiping away blood that dripped down his face from a cut slashed across his forehead. “Get them to the hou—”

“Dhorma,” Nessa gasped as she saw his face. “Dhorm—”

“Hush, little heda,” Dhorma said as he came forward, grabbed Clarke by the shoulders and lifted her to her feet. “Stay with Jaxta.”

And Clarke heard the fear in Nessa’s broken breath, she heard the shock, the tremble. But before Clarke could do much more another horn echoed out around them, this one closer, but what made Clarke’s fear spike was the way it cut out too suddenly, the way it died mid echo.

“Come,” Jaxta hissed and Clarke saw the woman’s eyes trained onto the shadows, onto the trees and dirt and bu—

“Dhorma,” Nessa’s shout echoed out, and Clarke turned to see Dhorma already racing away and in the direction of the horn, and it took Clarke only a second to register that his sword had been drawn, that blood dripped from the blade.

And Clarke would think later, she would think when it was safe. But for now she settled on running. And so she did.

Jaxta continued to run fast in front of them, the woman’s bow drawn, arrow glinting in the sunlight. Clarke followed her as well as she could as Nessa clutched to her, the shock of whatever it was already taking hold of her body. Clarke heard more sounds, she heard the approach of others, but a whistle, its sound rich and purposeful echoed out, and Clarke saw Jaxta relax just barely as the whistle was registered.

As the whistle died two shadows raced out from the shadows, and Clarke’s eyes widened as she saw two women, one dark skinned, hair mighty and curled, another olive skinned, and hair cropped short, burst from the bushes, their chests rising heavily as they raced past them.

And Clarke recognised the clothing both women wore, she recognised the weapons littered over their bodies, and she recognised them to be handmaidens, warriors, purposeful and dangerous.

Clarke would consider what it meant that Dhorma had already been injured, she would consider what it meant that he chased after the warning horn, she would even consider what it must mean that more handmaidens seemingly patrolled the forests, must have always been close, must have always been near enough to protect if needed. And she would consider. But at another time, another place, somewhere less dangerous.

But they burst into the clearing that surrounded their home, Jaxta turned and looked back the way they came, arrow aimed squarely behind them.

“Inside,” Jaxta hissed, and Clarke grimaced as Nessa struggled, as she tried to get loose, but Clarke held her more tightly, held her so tightly she was sure it was painful, she was sure it hurt, but she knew, she knew and she knew something worse followed, something worse stalked the forests.

She made it into the house, she let Nessa down onto her feet and her chest heaved and she gasped and doubled over as she tried to catch her breath. Jaxta pushed inside with them, the woman’s hair clinging to her forehead.

“Where is nomon,” Nessa asked, and Clarke’s chest heart, her heart ached as she heard the fear in Nessa’s voice, and she knew she needed to be strong, she knew she needed to do all she could as she saw the tears in Nessa’s eyes, in the white knuckle grasp she had on her knife tucked into her belt.

But Jaxta shook her head, gripped Nessa by the upper arm and began to half drag, half guide Nessa further and further into the home until they came to her door. Clarke followed, her own fingers trembling as she tried to steady her beating heart. Jaxta froze though, and Clarke froze too for she heard the distant clanging of metal against metal, she heard the cries of warning and anger and pain.

“Inside. Now,” Jaxta hissed, and Clarke half stumbled and fell into Nessa’s room as Jaxta pushed them both inside.

“Where is nomon,” Nessa said again as she turned to face Jaxta, the woman’s face hardened and void of any emotion.

And perhaps it was the fear in Nessa’s eyes, perhaps it was the way the girl’s lip trembled, or perhaps it was the fact that Nessa seemed to be trying to be just as much the warrior as Dhorma had always been, that her shoulders were squared and that her knife was drawn, that her fingers trembled yet she remained firmly planting in spot. Whatever it was, Jaxta’s face softened ever so slightly as she came to kneel before Nessa, one hand coming to rest on the girl’s shoulder as she squeezed.

“Be brave, little heda.”

And with that Jaxta slammed Nessa’s bedroom door shut, the sound of the doorknob being broken off the only thing to echo out around them.


	11. Chapter 11

Silence settled around them. The only thing Clarke could hear was her own breathing, each breath leaden, desperate and broken by a fear and a panic that began to creep higher and higher.

It took Clarke a moment longer before she realised she held on tightly to Nessa’s hand, that she must be squeezing it far too tightly for it to be comfortable. But Nessa seemed not to mind for she held on just as tightly.

Clarke knew what that horn had meant, she knew what it signalled, and she knew she had heard it long ago in the midst of war, of battle, of blood and pain. And perhaps she was foolish to have expected that she could live a life away from her past, that she could hide somewhere in the depths of the lands.

But perhaps she should have expected it to end.

It shouldn’t have surprised her though, not when all the signs pointed to her life being in danger. Jaxta’s appearance made sense, Lexa’s appearance made sense, even the two other handmaidens who had seemingly appeared from nowhere made sense. And Clarke would deal with the revelation that she hadn’t been as alone as she had thought at a later time.

But she heard the sounds in the distance, the sounds of metal against metal, each piercing strike loud and shrill and far too close to home. Nessa’s hand began to tremble in her grasp, the girl’s fingers seemed to cling desperately to her and Clarke didn’t know what to say, she couldn’t even think of how to tell the girl that things would be ok, if only because she knew not whether they would.

“Nomon will be ok,” Nessa said ever so quietly, and as Clarke looked down to her, she knew Nessa spoke to herself, tried to reassure herself that things were ok, that her mother was safe.

Silence settled around them once more and it wasn’t quite sudden, wasn’t quite unexpected. Clarke eyed the door, the shard of light that snuck in through the gaps enough to let her know that Jaxta still stood outside in wait for whatever was to come. The sound of a bow being drawn, the quiet creep of the bowstring, and the slightest thud of feet widening in stance came from behind the door and Clarke knew Jaxta had heard, had anticipated a confrontation.

“Nessa,” Clarke whispered, and she pulled her gaze from the door, tried to ignore the fear that was spiking, “get away from the door,” and Clarke grimaced as she turned to face the girl’s room in search of somewhere to hide, of somewhere to keep Nessa hidden, but she she turned only to find Nessa’s small bed in one corner and a table in the other.

Clarke pulled Nessa back with a quiet tug, eyes already falling to the small gap under Nessa’s bed, but Clarke heard the thud of feet outside, of sure and careful approach.

And she stopped, she stopped and Clarke’s lips trembled.

“Klark,” Nessa whispered, the girl’s eyes widened in fear as she looked to the door, one hand already falling to the knife on her hip, the other still clutched in Clarke’s hand.

Clarke quietened the girl with a gentle hush, and she was sure her heart picked up its pace even more, and Clarke tried to think of what to do, of what to say, of anything she could do to when she knew so little. But before her mind could really settle on a course of action, on a plan, she heard it.

And it was sudden. It was violent.

What sounded like the front door being kicked open broke the silence around them. The immediate sound of an arrow being fired snapped through the air and Clarke heard a curse. She heard a gurgling breath and she heard the thump of a body hit the ground.

And then the silence was shattered.

Clarke heard Jaxta draw and fire another arrow, she heard someone else scream out in anger, she heard the dying person’s breath as it spluttered. But Clarke ignored it, she ignored it all. And she did so for she rushed to the bed, Nessa’s hand firmly in hers.

“Get down,” Clarke hissed as she pushed Nessa down onto the ground and began to push the girl under her bed.

“Klark,” Nessa said, and her voice came out frantic, desperate and pleading, and as Clarke looked the girl in the eyes she saw tears, she saw shock and fear and something else she recognised all too well.

“It’s going to be o—” her words were cut off by a sharp grunt of pain, “—ok,” she said as she grimaced as the wall shook as something was thrown against it. “Hide here,” and Clarke didn’t quite know what else to say, perhaps she didn’t even know if she should say anymore.

“Kla—” Nessa’s eyes were wide, and Clarke thought she saw the understanding, saw the realisation in the girl’s gaze.

“I’m not going anywhere, Nessa, I promise,” and Clarke meant it as much as she could. “Stay quiet,” and Clarke grimaced as she pushed Nessa further under the bed before turning to face the door and coming to stand, her feet planted firmly beneath her as she tried to control her breathing.

Another deep cry of pain echoed out around her, and she was sure a man had been wounded, a man had been slain for Clarke almost felt more than heard a body hit the floor. But even that body was followed by a gasping pant, something full of pain and fury only to be met by the sharp cling of metal against metal. And it was quick, it was violent, it was sudden and too short for Clarke to quite understand what must have happened.

Footsteps ran fast, she heard the desperate thump of flesh hitting flesh. She heard metal scrape agaisnt metal, she heard the pain, she heard the sickening squelch and the gargle of life before a body hit the ground in front of the door.

And perhaps for a moment Clarke thought of things less fearsome, less broken. But that was short lived.

And it was short lived for that light that had once broken in from under the door, that had given light to so many mornings was blocked by the slow pooling of blood that began to seep in from the body that lay on the other side of the door.

What followed the too long silence were three heavy footsteps, and Clarke saw a shadow move from under the door. She sensed that body on the other side of door move, be dragged, discarded and cast aside with a terrifying calmness.

And there was a careful thump, something purposeful, something tempered with caution. And then there was another, this one more purposeful, more sure, and it made Clarke jump, it made her tremble and shake in fear. And then there was another. The door shook more forcefully. And then another. And another. And another. The door shook with each kick, whoever was on the other side seemed content to work at the same leisurely pace as if they knew time was on their side, as if they knew things had gone just the way they had anticipated.

Clarke’s hand fell to the knife Nessa had given her, she drew it and she grimaced as it made just enough sound that the kicking against the door paused for a split second. Even Nessa must have heard for the girl whimpered, the sound muffled by the heaviness of the bed atop her, by the confines of where Clarke had tried to hide her. But Clarke needed to make sure she was ok, she needed to tell Nessa not to fear, not to worry, if only because she thought if she lied, if she said those words, that she wouldn’t feel all those things.

And so Clarke pulled her eyes from the door, she turned and she met Nessa’s gaze from under the bed, “Nessa,” Clarke whispered. “You’re going to b—”

But Clarke didn’t finish.

The door burst open, her gaze snapped back and she gasped as a shard of wood hit her in the forehead, as it must have drawn blood.

But she ignored it as she lunged forward, as she aimed her knife into whoever it was before her.

But the man anticipated, the man saw, the man smirked. Blood dripped from a wound on his cheek, one hand lay by his side, his shoulder hanging lower than the other. But in the split second before they crashed together, Clarke saw enough to register that the man showed no signs of pain, that he masked his discomfort well, and that a broken arrow shaft protruded from his calf.

That split second was all it took for Clarke to register who he was, who he wasn’t, and what she needed to do to stay alive. And so she slammed her knife forward as hard as she could. And for the briefest of moments she thought she would succeed. But that was a foolish thought for the man twisted, his chest pulled away from her and his uninjured hand snapped forward and punched her squarely in the throat.

She retched, she gagged, she gasped and she collapsed to the ground as her knife fell from her grasp. But Clarke didn’t give up when she was imprisoned on the Ark, she didn’t give up when she first landed on the ground, she didn’t give up when she was faced with the reapers, and she didn’t give up in the Mountain, she didn’t give up when she was left at the entrance to the Mountain’s depths and she didn’t give up when she pulled the lever.

And so Clarke didn’t give up then either. She ignored the fact she couldn’t breathe, she ignored the fact that her throat felt so very bruised, and she ignored the fact that she couldn’t quite see past the tears in her eyes.

Clarke’s hand reached out, she grasped the protruding arrow shaft in the man’s calf and she yanked it up and down as hard as she could.

The man roared out in pain, he reached down and gripped her by the hair as he tried to pull her from him, but Clarke fought back, she fought back hard, she managed to plant her knees under her and she punched up, she punched out at any part of his body she could find, and she ignored the pain erupting across her face as he struck her, she ignored the piercing pain across her knuckles as she struck something solid and metal.

But Clarke’s blood froze as she heard her name called out from behind her, and she wanted to tell Nessa to keep quiet, she wanted to tell the girl to stay hidden, to let her try to protect them. But she couldn’t when all that escaped past her lips was a hoarse shout of frustration.

The man kicked out, his boot struck her chin and Clarke felt her teeth sink into her lip, she tasted the blood and she saw stars as her head snapped back. Clarke fell to the ground, her eyes saw stars and she couldn’t stop the desperation from taking hold as she saw Nessa wriggle her way out from under the bed.

And the girl’s face was a mix of fury, of anger, of fear and determination. Nessa ran forward, her knife already drawn and her fist white knuckled. But the man chuckled, he stepped over Clarke and she watched in sadness as Nessa slashed out, as she tried to wound, to kill to do something more.

But he side stepped her, his body just barely limping now, and Clarke grimaced as she tried to get to her hands and knees as she tried to do more than simply lie on the ground in dazed pain. She saw his hand snatch out and grasp Nessa’s wrist, she saw him yank it back and she felt the rage and fury build as Nessa shouted out in pain, as her face contorted and as she dropped her knife only for her to be pulled in and kneed in the stomach before dropping to her knees.

And maybe it was the realisation that Clarke cared for Nessa in some odd way, maybe it was the realisation that Nessa had done no wrong in this world, perhaps it was the fact that she just didn’t like seeing someone so young be faced with the harshness of the ground. Or maybe if was the guilt, the anguish and regret she felt for the actions she had taken in the Mountain, and the fact that she now blamed herself for the things that happened. But whatever it was, Clarke felt her adrenaline spike, she felt her strength return, and she forced herself to stand, she forced herself to fight through the fact she couldn’t quite breath as much as she needed.

She looked around for her knife, she tried to see where she had dropped it, but she couldn’t see it, couldn’t find it in time, and she her hand fell to the only thing she had near her. And that was the fish she had hunted with Nessa, the one that had been tied over her shoulder, whose weight had long since slipped her mind.

And it would do.

Clarke rushed forward, her hand closed around the fish and she swung it hard, she swung it fast, she swung it with as much fury and strength that she could muster.

The man turned to face her, his eyes narrowed for only a second before widening. And Clarke roared out as she hit him as hard as she could. The sound that echoed out around them was sickening, the fish slammed into his face with a disgustingly wet squelch and Clarke felt the vibrations rock up her arm. Blood and flesh and scales exploded in her hands, his head snapped sideways and Clarke screamed out her frustrations as she swung again and again and again.

The man rocked back with each blow, his injured arm lay helpless by his side as the other still fought to control Nessa’s wrist. But with each blow Clarke saw his grasp loosen, with each strike she saw his senses daze more and more. And all it took was that momentary lapse of control, that momentary shock of being struck by a fish, that blood and sinew and muscle and flesh and guts covered his face. And that was all Nessa needed.

Nessa’s hand snatched forward, Clarke saw her draw one of his own knives tucked into his belt, and she knew the man didn’t see, didn’t realise until it was too late.

Nessa slammed the knife as deep as she could into his chest, Clarke swung one last time, the force enough to rip the now decimated fish in two and then the man fell to his back, one hand clutching at his own knife embedded in his chest, his legs crumpled under his body and his blood joining that of all those who had died in the house.

Clarke took just one second to register what had happened, she took just one second to understand what had transpired. And then she moved. Clarke reached up, grabbed Nessa by the upper arm and began to pull her away from the man.

“We have to go. Now,” Clarke hissed, and she ignored Nessa’s yelp of pain at the suddenness of her motions, she even ignored the way Nessa cradled her wrist to her chest.

“Kla—” Nessa began but Clarke silenced her with a shaking of her head.

“We’re leaving,” Clarke said. And she didn’t quite know why she felt the need to leave, she didn’t quite even understand if it was wise. But all she knew was that her mind was screaming for her to take Nessa, to run, to put as much distance between their home and themselves as quickly as possible. “We’re leaving,” Clarke repeated as she began moving to the remains of what was once Nessa’s bedroom door. “We’re going to be ok.”

Clarke hadn’t had time to register what must have happened outside Nessa’s door, but as she stepped through it she couldn’t help but to gasp out in shock and sadness.

Five bodies lay scattered throughout the small house she had called home. A man lay at the front door, an arrow embedded in his throat. A woman lay just inside the house, another arrow sticking out from an eye socket, its presence having forced out what was once an eye out and splattered across her cheek to leave behind a sickly white and liquid jelly like substance. two men lay deeper into the house, one’s arm lay somewhere detached from his body Clarke couldn’t see, the other with a gash slashed into his throat so deep and wide that she thought she could recognise his sickly anatomy.

But Clarke’s gaze settled on the body that lay just beside the entrance to the bedroom, and she couldn’t help but to feel a pain in her heart as she took in Jaxta’s lifeless eye. A slash cut from her cheek, sliced into her eye and up into her scalp. The blade must have torn away hair and flesh alike because Clarke saw more than she wished to see of the woman’s head. One of Jaxta’s hands still held her bow, its string sliced and detached, the other held onto a sword, two fingers missing from where a slice must have removed them from her hand. Even her chest was flayed open, her clothes torn and ripped, the internal org—

“Jaxta,” Nessa cried out as her gaze took in all that she saw—

“No,” Clarke hissed as she turned, as she pulled Nessa’s face into her side to shield the girl from what lay before them. “Don’t look Nessa,” and Clarke hated it, she hated whatever her life had become, she hated what her life had made of Nessa’s and she hated the death, the loss and the guilt. “Don’t look.”

And with that Clarke picked Nessa up, she held the girl to her as tightly as she could, and she ignored the tears that already clouded her vision, she ignored the anguish that tormented her mind and she ignored the pain in her body as she ran for the front door, as she ran for the open, and as she ran as far away as possible. And through it all Nessa’s broken sobs were the only thing that kept Clarke company as she fled deeper and deeper into the forest.


	12. Chapter 12

“No,” she said, the word simple and defiant.

Lexa sensed the few around her bristle to the refusal, but she knew they wouldn’t respond, wouldn’t dare to unless she gave the word.

“And why is that?” she asked.

“You may be Heda,” and Lexa watched as her mother looked from her and to Hadta and Tamen before settling on Ryder who stood beside her. “But I will not allow you to dictate how I live my life, or how I raise Nessa.”

Lexa looked away for long enough that she could settle her thoughts and gauge just how much she would let her mother get away with before enforcing her will.

“You can not have it both ways,” Alexandria continued, and Lexa watched as her mother’s gaze hardened, as her chin levelled and as she took a step forward. “I accepted your desire for us to be hidden, I accepted Dhorma’s protection when you ordered it, but I will not let you determine how Nessa is raised.”

And for a moment Lexa couldn’t help but to try and remember the life she had had before, the one where she had been little more than a babe, a youth, too young to do more than crawl and stumble and fall across the ground. Lexa understood the emotions she felt, she understood those flickering desires, those regrets and perhaps even those jealousies. But as always she had buried them deep down, and she would continue to do so, if only because she could and would never blame Nessa, would never even dare to blame the child.

But her silence must be interpreted as refusal, as rebuke, for Alexandria stepped even closer, “I allow Jaxta to live with us now. But Hadta and Tamen will not,” ands he looked to the two handmaidens for a moment, “I mean no disrespect,” Alexandria added.

“None is taken,” Hadta said, the woman’s head bowing for a brief moment, the mightiness of her curls breathing with the motion. “And I mean no disrespect when I say that we do not answer to you, nomon gon heda.”

Alexandria didn’t quite bristle at that, but Lexa was sure her mother grew just a little more annoyed. But she shook her head and turned back to face her.

“If it is so dangerous,” Alexandria said. “Then take us from here.”

“I do not wish to disturb Nessa’s life,” Lexa challenged, and she meant it, for she wanted Nessa to live a life void of any and all disturbance. At least until the time came that she would be given to a first.

“You give half measures,” Alexandria said, head shaking enough to disturb a braid. “You play keeper to our lives yet you are unwilling to give more than empty promise,” Alexandria paused, perhaps this time to consider how best to say her next words. “You do enough that Nessa thinks she will be taken from here, that she will be allowed to see the clans, Polis, Skaikru, all that has changed since we settled here.”

“That is not my intention,” Lexa said, and she couldn’t even try to deny the regret that flared up at the words her mother spoke.

“But that is what your actions have caused,” Alexandria pushed. “You either stop this, stop giving her hope, stop giving her reason to believe our isolatio—”

“—It is for your protection.”

“—Isolation is over,” Alexandria ignored her words as she pressed onwards. “Or you return us to how our life was before, where no one other than Dhorma disturbed us, when Nessa did not wake each morning to look outside in the hopes that your warriors would be waiting to take her away.”

Anger flared then, and it was sudden, enough that it surprised even herself, but Lexa couldn’t hold back the past, couldn’t hold back the sadness that had once tormented her thoughts, and so she snapped, she snarled, and she leant forward in her throne.

But she knew the change had been subtle, for she knew not to raise her voice, not to let her emotions dictate her actions but to let her actions be seen through demeanour.

And Alexandria saw the change. Her mother’s mouth clicked shut, her eyes glared before looking downwards and she took a step back, head bowed ever so slightly.

“Hadta and Tamen will remain nearby,” Lexa said. “I will allow you to have your privacy, they will remain in the forest, near enough at all times to hear you but not be seen,” and Lexa grit her teeth, she found herself grinding them and she needed to remind herself to relax, to settle, to not seethe. “But Jaxta will remain with you. Dhorma will continue to visit when he does,” but Lexa softened her voice, tried to ease back into a kinder place. “I do not intend to give Nessa false hopes,” and she knew from the way her mother met her gaze that she was believed. “But I will not risk either of you falling victim,” and she need not say more than that.

Alexandria took in a deep breath, seemed to compose herself and then she smiled, the motion just a little sadder than Lexa liked.

“Very well, Heda,” Alexandria’s head bowed, but she looked up at her once more, her gaze now more cautious than it had been when she had been discussing Nessa’s wellbeing.

“Speak,” Lexa said.

“Klark,” and she couldn’t help but to stiffen just a little at the name, if only because she wouldn’t deny that she had hidden away from the woman since their short conversations.

“Yes,” Lexa said. “What of Klark.”

Alexandria paused, and Lexa thought the silence purposeful and poignant and so she sighed, raised a hand a waved it towards the door.

“Leave us,” she said, and she watched as Hadta and Tamen bowed their heads before exiting, Ryder quick to follow with just one careful glance over his shoulder towards her mother.

Lexa stood in the silence, and she did so for she expected the next conversation to be something between mother and daughter than ruler and subordinate.

“Speak freely, nomon,” Lexa said, and she stepped forward and towards her war table in the centre of her tent.

“What did you do?” and it came out as simple as it could, and perhaps Lexa had underestimated just how painful her actions were for she found herself flinching from the probing question.

“What was best for my people,” Lexa said.

Alexandria shook her head then, and Lexa didn’t know if she thought the motion disappointment or sadness or something other, but perhaps she didn’t need to know when her mother simply came to stand beside her, hip resting on the edge of the table, arms crossed over her chest.

“I will not pry,” Alexandria said. “It is not my place to tell you how to live your life,” and Lexa couldn’t help but to smile half heartedly. “And I do not think you would listen.”

“Perhaps not,” Lexa said, and she tried to make her tone as light as possible, but she could be forgiven for thinking the lightness in her voice foreign and unfamiliar to her.

“It broke her,” Alexandria said, and Lexa looked down and to the map that always adorned her table.

“I know,” and Lexa wondered what if would have been like if she had stayed, if she had fought, if she had decided to ignore the offer, if she had decided not to hedge her people’s continued survival on the actions of a single person.

“She makes progress,” Alexandria said. “Before,” and she tilted her head outwards, the motion speaking of the past, of the days and nights long since gone. “She would wake in the night, would cry and beg and plead,” and Lexa blinked away the pain. “But now she is better.”

“Is she?” Lexa thought her voice timid.

“Better than she was,” Alexandria said.

“Then I am happy for her,” and Lexa believed it. But so too did she believe that Klark’s happiness was not for her to share in, that Klark would never allow her closer again.

“You have regret,” Alexandria said.

“I am not afforded the opportunity to have regret,” Lexa challenged, and she knew her voice sounded stiff, robotic, unkind.

“You lie,” Alexandria said, and Lexa grimaced as she felt her mother’s hand close over hers.

But Lexa thought the conversation too long now, she thought it too personal, too far from what she had been raised to be, and so she pulled her hand from under her mother’s, turned to face her and let her features still and iron and regress back to a time where she had felt empty.

“While Azgeda continues to sow doubt and confusion throughout the Coalition my warriors will remain nearby to ensure your safety,” and Lexa tried to ignore the hurt she saw in her mother’s eyes at her change in tone.

“I understand, Heda,” Alexandria said as she stepped back, hand quick to retreat to her side.

“I apologise for any inconveni—”

A horn echoed out, its sound piercing, sharp, full of desperation.

And Lexa had just one thought, just one moment to anguished realisation before she began to move.

_No._

 

* * *

 

Clarke ran as fast as she could. She ran as hard as she could. She ran as desperately as she could. Tree branch and limb stabbed into her body, cut across her flesh and tore at her clothes. Her throat burned from the punch, her eyes watered from the pain and her arms ached from holding Nessa to her as tightly as she could.

Clarke was sure someone gave chase, she was sure something followed. But she didn’t stop to listen, didn’t dare slow her pace to hear. And she didn’t for she knew whoever it was would kill, would maim, would torture or cause her more pain than she could imagine.

“It’s going to be ok,” Clarke gasped out again and again and again. She didn’t know who she spoke to though, and perhaps it was to comfort Nessa who still clung to her, who trembled, who sobbed, perhaps it was to comfort herself, to lie to herself, to trick her mind into thinking her life hadn’t soured that of another’s, that her curse hadn’t been passed on to someone far too innocent.

But Clarke tripped, her foot snagged a tree branch and she crashed to the ground with a thump and a sickening _crunch_ as her hand shot out to break her fall. Pain exploded up her wrist, seemed to snake through her bones and fill her nerves with more pain than she could imagine. Nessa yelped in shock as she was crushed by Clarke’s body, and Clarke would apologise at a later time.

They came to a tumbling stop in the dirt and mud and thick underbrush of the forest. Tears filled Clarke’s vision and she knew she had broken her wrist from the pain and the way it seemed to twist just a little too much to the right.

“Klark,” Nessa hissed as she pulled herself into a seated position, eyes widened as she saw Clarke’s wrist.

“It’s ok,” Clarke said, but she knew her voice quivered, that pain must have been evident on her face from the way Nessa tried to reach for her wrist only to stop mid motion. “We’re ok,” Clarke whimpered as she cradled her wrist to her chest.

Maybe it was the abruptness of their fall, perhaps it was the first real moment they had had since being attacked, but whatever it was, Nessa’s emotions seemed to catch up to her for the girl blinked just once, and Clarke knew the pain had come for the girl’s lips began to quiver, her eyes filled her tears and she buried her face in her hands as she tried to shield her face from view.

“We’re going to be ok,” Clarke whispered as she moved closer to Nessa, her uninjured arm wrapping around the girl’s shoulders.

“Ja—” Nessa’s voice choked on a sob.

“I know,” and Clarke felt the pain herself, felt the responsibility and the guilt and the loss for the woman she had known for only a short time. “I know,” and Clarke found her own eyes filling with tears not from the pain of her wrist.

“Where is nomon?” and Nessa’s voice seemed to break even more, and as she wiped a muddied hand across her face Clarke found herself remembering that Nessa was only a child, was barely old enough to be allowed outside on her own, that despite all the responsibility she placed upon her own small shoulders, she was still had been untested by the world.

“She’s going to be ok,” Clarke said, but perhaps she didn’t quite believe it, if only because she didn’t know what to believe.

“I want nomon,” Nessa choked, and her voice broke, it seemed so fragile and small and full of hopeless loss that Clarke found herself breaking, found herself feeling Nessa’s own pain.

And just as Clarke was about to answer, to say something, to voice anything that could comfort, she heard the creaking of a bowstring, she heard the quieting of breath.

Clarke’s hand shot out, she clamped it over Nessa’s mouth and she pulled them both lower and deeper into the underbrush.

“Hush, Nessa,” Clarke whispered, her lips brought to the girl’s ear as her eyes strained to make out the disturbance in the forest around them.

Nessa must have heard, too, for she somehow found a way to silence the sobs, yet her body still shook to the shock and adrenaline and sadness.

Clarke knew they couldn’t stay where they were, not when she saw the hunched over figure moving through the forest barely a stone’s throw away. The man’s body was shrouded in shadow, but Clarke could tell he was armed, that he had drawn a bow, and that he was waiting, searching, hunting. Clarke heard a gentle rustle a little distance away and as her eyes moved out in search she saw another figure, this one more slender, form shrouded by the distance, their own bow readied as they began to circle.

Clarke knew they would be found, she knew it was only a matter of time before either one of their pursuers stumbled across them if they stayed where they were.

But she had no other choice, no other option.

And so she did the only thing she could.

She hugged Nessa close to her, closed her eyes for only a moment as her heart began to beat faster and faster, and she embraced the adrenaline she could feel raging through her body.

Clarke’s eyes opened, she let out the breath she had been holding, and she ignored the pain in her wrist, she ignored Nessa’s weight in her arms, she ignored the pain in her forehead from the splinter of wood that now dripped blood into her vision.

And she ran.

 

* * *

 

Lexa ran fast, she darted over fallen tree and trampled bush. Ryder ran beside her, the man’s sword glinting in the light as he looked out into the shadows around them. Another horn sounded, and Lexa knew another of her warriors had found conflict, and she grimaced as the sound was cut short, perhaps from a blade being slipped into ribs, her warriors having ignored their own safety in order to alert those nearby, or from them stopping the sound in time to respond, in time to attack or defend before their fight was lost.

Hadta and Tamen had raced away, had followed Dhorma’s tracks as the man had ran in search of Nessa and Klark and Jaxta, who had been seen near the river. And Lexa knew she wouldn’t find them in the forests, she knew they would head straight to their home, and so that is where she ran, that is where she knew she would find whoever it was that had found them.

It didn’t take Lexa long before she broke out from trees and into the clearing. But Lexa’s heart dropped when she saw the home that sat alone and isolated from the forest. Lexa paused for only a moment to look around, to take in the surrounding to ensure no one was present, but Alexandria barely broke her stride, barely even considered the possibility of others.

A cry of desperation and fear and anger broke past Alexandria’s lips, and Lexa found herself trembling as she began to race after her mother who ran forward without worry, all the while calling Nessa’s name. But Lexa felt the fear beginning to spike, she felt the pain and the hopelessness and the suddenness beginning to take hold. Or maybe she didn’t, maybe things had happened so fast, had happened so swiftly that she could little more than understand what must have happened, what must have taken place.

Alexandria made it to the front door that hang off from its hinges only for Lexa to see her mother rush inside. And so Lexa followed as Ryder readied himself for whatever they would find.

And it shocked Lexa, made her blood freeze, made her heart clench and her eyes widen.

Two warriors lay near the front door, both having been felled by arrow. Two others lay deeper inside the house, both having been slain with a brutal lethality that Lexa recognised all too well.

But Lexa’s gaze fell to the body that lay just aside from Nessa’s bedroom door, and her heart fell, a sadness seemed to take hold even more than she thought possible.

She recognised Jaxta’s clothes, she recognised the woman’s armour, the colour of her hair and the paleness of her flesh. But Lexa saw the signs of a fight, of a struggle, she saw the blood that pooled around the woman. She saw the wound that split open the woman’s head from cheek through her eye and to her scalp, she took in the severed fingers, the hand still holding her broken bow and the way her chest was cut open from a strike too fearsome to block. But most of all? Lexa recognised that Jaxta had never moved from Nessa’s bedroom door despite being outnumbered, must have not sought any cover lest someone slip past her, that the handmaiden must have withstood pain and injury and the certainty of death for as long as she could. Until she couldn’t anymore.

“Heda,” Ryder said quietly as he stepped out from where he must have been inspecting Klark’s room. “She is not here.”

But Lexa’s head snapped up to see her mother stepping out from Nessa’s bedroom, the woman holding two knives, both Lexa recognised.

“They are gone,” and Alexandria’s voice sounded cold, empty, emotionless and more than broken. “There is another body inside.”

And Lexa found a relief fill her, if only because she knew the absence of their bodies was preferable to the certainty that the presence of their bodies would mean.

Rushed footsteps broke her momentary lapse of thought, and as she whirled around, sword already drawn, body crouching, she saw Dhorma burst through the front door, blood streaming from a wound across his face, more covering his clothes and Hadta and Tamen close behind him.

“Dhorma,” Lexa hissed as she moved forward.

“We were attacked, we tried to hold them off, I told Jaxta to come here,” but Dhorma’s eyes widened as he took in the interior of the home.

“They are not here,” Lexa said simply.

Lexa watched as Hadta took in those who lay dead around them before her gaze settled on Jaxta’s body, and she saw Hadta falter as she stepped forward, came to crouch beside her friend and lay a hand on the only part of her body not covered in blood.

“Heda,” Tamen’s voice called from outside, and Lexa looked up to see Tamen pointing down on the ground, expression hardened and accepting the loss of Jaxta. “Tracks,” and she pointed outwards. “One pair. Into the forest.”

And at that Lexa felt hope, felt fury, felt something not quite relief and not quite desperation. If only because she was sure it was Klark, she was sure it must be. And if Klark had fled, she knew Nessa would be with her.

The rustle of clothes being readied made Lexa look back and into the home, and she found herself looking at her mother who slung her bow and arrow over a shoulder, sword strapped to her hip and face hardened.

“They have tried to kill my daughter,” Alexandria snarled. “They have tried to kill your sister,” and she pushed past Ryder who seemed unsure of whether he should stop her or not. “I am going to hunt them. And kill them.”


	13. Chapter 13

Blood spilled out over her fingers, her breath came shallow and her eyes peered out into the dark of the forest around her. The man in her arms continued to struggle for another few seconds before the blood loss became too much and his limbs began to fade.

Alexandria grit her teeth as she withdrew her knife, one last spray of blood the only thing that gave way her kill as she lay the twitching body on the forest floor as quietly as she could.

There was another quiet grunt of exertion before her, and she glanced to her left to find her daughter sat atop a woman’s chest, one hand covering a mouth, the other closed around her own knife that was embedded in the woman’s chest.

Alexandria looked for only long enough that she was sure no aid was needed before she turned her attention forwards and to the figures in the near distance. Three shadows moved through the forest, each one alert and having sensed danger was near, but Alexandria feared not for being discovered. And she didn’t because she felt an anger thrumming through her veins, she felt a fury and a hate fill her mind, hone her senses and give strength to her actions.

She began to move forward, each step she took silenced by the years she had spent on hunts with her daughter through these very same forests. The others she was with moved with her, each one’s steps almost as silent as hers, but she found herself pulling away with each movement she made. She didn’t care either, because she wanted to be the one to kill each and every person she came across, she wanted to be the one to bring them their last moments.

And so she paused. She stopped and she took a moment to gauge how far away each of the three figures were.

And she knew she had enough time.

Alexandria drew an arrow, let the creak in the bowstring fill her senses, and she smiled viciously.

Alexandria fired from where she lay crouched in the shadows. Her arrow snapped forward and she spared it only moment’s attention, just long enough that she was sure it would strike true.

Even before the first arrow had hit its mark she had fired her second, this arrow quick to soar through the air with a whistling twang. And then she stood, she let let her gaze fall to the last warrior whose head began to turn to her presence only for them to widen just in time to register that an arrow slammed into their chest.

Alexandria let out the breath she had been holding, she drew another arrow and she returned to the shadows as her gaze began to search for any other threats that may have lingered nearby.

Her daughter came to crouch beside her, bloodied knife held in her hand as she eyed the three bodies that lay dead on the forest floor.

“There are more nearby,” Lexa said, and Alexandria looked up and into the trees in search for Hadta who had scaled them, who was hidden from view.

“I do not care how many there are,” Alexandria said. “Only that we killed them all.”

They both began to creep forward once more, mother and daughter quiet in the shadows. And though Alexandria focused on ensuring each step she took was as quiet as possible, she couldn’t also help but to feel an apprehension growing in the back of her mind.

She knew she couldn’t move faster than she did incase she alerted any others nearby to her presence. And she knew that eliminating any and all that stood between her and Nessa as silently as possible would be the quickest, rather than drawing it out into a fight that could be prolonged.

She shook her thoughts, let her mind focus on the path ahead and she came to a pause as a low hoot echoed out from somewhere in the distance. She knew that sound meant that Ryder and Dhorma had both found another group of warriors, that they had taken them out with little difficulty, but that only added to her worry if only because it meant that there was all the more chance that the tracksshe followed were not of Klark and Nessa, but of others sent as distraction.

Alexandria paused then, and she did for she felt her skin begin to prickle, even Lexa must have sensed the shift in air for she came to a careful crouch by a large tree, her gaze turned outwards and hand falling to her sword rather than remain holding her knife.

Alexandria saw the shadow shift in the distance, and she recognised it to be the shape of a warrior moving through the shadows, each step purposeful. She shrugged off her bow, let it settle in her hands as she reached for an arrow.

She took in a deep breath as the flex in the bow increased. She paused for only a moment as she began to rise just enough that the arrow would clear the bush in front of her. She let her gaze follow the length of the arrow, she gauged the wind, how much it blew, and how strong it breathed through the forest, and she waited for the moment between heartbeats, where her breath stilled, and where her mind settled.

And then she fi—

An arrow snapped out from the shadows, it curved through the air, she saw it arc, drop, tip glinting and she dove to the ground. The arrow slammed into the tree behind where she had just been standing, its body quivering with the impact.

Alexandria rolled into the shadows with a hissed curse, and she came to her knees in the shadows and fired her own arrow in the direction that the first had come from. Lexa herself dipped into the shadows, eyes widened for only a fraction before narrowing in anger. Their gazes met for only long enough that understanding was shared between them and then Lexa slipped away, body crouched low as she rushed into the forest dark.

Alexandria returned her attention back to the forest to find it silent, stilled and voice of any movement. She thought she sensed Hadta beginning to circle overhead in search of whoever it was that had ambushed them.

And it was a game of cat and house they now played, one were any movement would give way their location, but Alexandria revelled in it, she embraced it, took comfort in knowing that she knew these forests better than any. She let her heartbeat settle while she took measure of the situation, and she knew at least two people remained nearby.

A stick snapped somewhere to her right, but she ignored the threat for she knew it too purposeful, too loud for it to be accident, all she did was turn her attention in that direction, let her eyes focus on every little shadow that moved, every little swaying bush that shifted.

Alexandria drew another arrow carefully, and she knew the sound would carry, that whoever was near would hear it, would be able to gauge the general direction of where she was, and because of that she began to move.

Each step she took was careful, the sound deaden by years of moving through the forest. Sweat dripped from her brow and trickled down the side of her face, her fingers brushed against the feathers of the fletching, and she found that adrenaline raced through her veins more fiercely than it had done in years.

But she heard the scuffle somewhere behind her, she heard the distinct sounds of bodies coming together, and she knew Lexa had found the second of those who hid in the shadows.

For a moment Alexandria found worry gnawing at her, but she discarded it for she knew it a waste to worry about something she could’t control directly, and so she let her faith in her daughter’s ability to fend for herself chase away her worries as her gaze honed in on a shadow that moved just a little too unnaturally.

Alexandria rose as much as she dared, she let her arrow break over a low hanging tree branch and she fired. Her arrow snapped out and she ducked back into the shadows as an arrow was fired her way in return. She felt the wind whistle past her head as she began to circle, as she began to move. She heard movement overhead, too, and she dared to look up for just one second to see Hadta leap from one branch to another, the handmaiden quick to fire her own arrow into the shadows before disappearing into the foliage.

Alexandria’s feet began to move more quickly for she sensed herself closing in on whoever it was nearby. She readied another arrow, drew it back halfway and found herself skidding to a stop between two large bushes, the shadow between them deep and still.

Her breath came a little heavier than before, her gaze peered out into the dark and she grit her teeth as she listened for any sound that would give way to the person’s presence. She even tried listening for Lexa who must be somewhere in the distance by now, who must be searching for her. But after only a few short moments Alexandria pulled her focus back to the sounds close by.

A bird broke from a tree just a short distance away, its motion enough to startle her in the silence, but she reacted quickly. Alexandria fired her arrow into the dark shadows, and she saw a bush twitch, she saw a body dive out of the way.

And she moved.

Alexandria gave chase, she leapt over a fallen tree, its trunk moss covered and green. She ducked under an arrow that was fired at her from the shadows. But as she came up once more she found herself unable to pinpoint where the person had fled. And so she slipped back into the shadows, let her breaths even out and she let her eyes take in the forest once more.

Alexandria wasn’t entirely sure what alerted her to the threat then, but as she crouched in the shadow of a large tree, she felt something in the back of her mind tell her to drop, to dive to the ground, and as she did she couldn’t help but to feel a sick sense of exhilaration as an arrow slammed into the tree.

And it happened fast.

She rolled into the shadows at the same time as the arrow hit the tree, the rush of feet running over dirt filled her senses and before she could fully plant herself firmly on the ground a body crashed into her.

Alexandria was lifted into the air before her back was slammed onto the ground. She grunted out a curse full of surprise and shock, and perhaps just a little admiration at whoever it was that had taken her by surprise.

But she reached out, gripped a fur lined collar and pulled the person as close to her as possible lest they make enough distance between them to bring a knife or sword into play. Alexandria threw her bow aside, too, for she knew it no good in such close proximity, and she couldn’t help but to curse the feeling of arrows snapping where they remained trapped against her back in the quiver.

A fist collided with the side of her head, her eyes saw stars and she blinked back the pain as she wrapped her legs around the person’s waist as she felt herself lifted into the air again.

And it was a man, tall, broad shoulders and barrel chested, who she clung to. But she knew how to fight, she knew how to handle people just like him for she had survived far more dangerous encounters than this, and so, as he shifted his stance, as he prepared to slam her into the ground again, she released his collar, hooked her heels together and squeezed her legs as tightly as she could as she began to drop. Alexandria flung herself back with his own momentum, and, as she came to see the world upside, she reached out with her hands and she let them splay against the dirt as she pulled him with her in a cartwheel of acrobatics and fury.

They came crashing to the ground, the man’s back slamming into the dirt as she settled over his chest. Alexandria drew her knife, slammed the blade down towards his chest, but his hand snatched out, caught her wrist and angled the strike into the dirt by his head.

His other hand reached forward, gripped her around the throat as he raised his hips and kicked his body to the side, the motion violent enough that she lost her footing.

Alexandria let herself be carried with the throw though, and she embraced the tumble and the roll. She threw dirt up behind her, though it didn’t surprise her when she felt him crash into her again, this time his shoulder slammed into her chest.

She grunted out in pain, but she absorbed the strike and kicked out for his knee. She felt the blow connect, but not hard enough to do more than cause his own grunt of pain to be heard.

They both tumbled to the ground again, and in the tangle of limbs and dirt and bush and stick, Alexandria lost control of her knife, but its loss didn’t cause panic for she found her feet and came to a low crouch as she drew two more knives, these ones smaller, more easily concealed than the first.

The man swivelled on his knees to face her, the knife she had dropped held in his hands as he eyed the two new ones with a calculating stare. Alexandria heard the creak of a bow string then, and she knew Hadta was about to fire at him, but the man must have heard too for he dove forward just in time to avoid the arrow being fired. He crashed into her and he attacked, her knife held in his hands flashed out as he began to slice and stab at her, his body close enough that he knew Hadta wouldn’t risk hitting her ally. But Alexandria expected it, and so she began to move with him, began to deflect blow after blow as she continued to make as much space between them as possible. Her knives moved fast in her hands, each blade barely longer than a finger, but sharp enough to open flesh with ease.

She knew the sounds of their confrontation would alert Lexa to their location though, so Alexandria grit her teeth as she found herself falling into the rhythm of parry and block, deflect and counterattack.

It lasted barely more than a handful of seconds, but Alexandria couldn’t help but to feel the worry for Nessa beginning to creep back with each wasted second she spent locked in the fight with the man. But her momentary distraction was all the man needed for he feinted, ducked her strike and kicked her shin hard enough to cause her to stumble, and in that moment to slashed out, the knife pierced her flesh and slice a cut into her shoulder deep enough to sting.

Alexandria snarled at the pain, ignored it, and deflected another strike and lashed out fast enough that she managed to sink the edge of a blade into his forearm, but his hand reached out quickly, took hold of her wrist, and pulled her closer to him, his knife aimed straight for her stomach.

Alexandria saw it though, managed to twist her body and kick out with her foot and deflect the low swung blow enough that she broke away from him. Distance was made, and in the split second it took for her to turn to face him fully she saw him dive out of the way as Hadta fired another arrow that just barely missed him. But the man reacted quickly, he rushed forward, his feet quick to cover the distance as he came to crash against her once more.

She braced herself for the impact, she spared a second to look behind herself to see what lay behind her, and then she turned to face him. Their eyes locked for a moment, and she saw the anger in his eyes, she saw the calculation, the planning, the threat, and she saw th—

A blur slammed into him from the shadows, Alexandria blinked back the surprise as her daughter rolled off him, sword already slashing for his exposed side, but the man managed to twist just enough that the strike wounded rather than maimed. But that was all she needed and so Alexandria rushed forward.

Disposing of the man was a swift and violent affair. Alexandria drove both her knives into his neck as Lexa slashed out again, this time her sword striking deep enough to open his stomach to the forest. The man gurgled, spluttered and clutched out at both of them as blood and guts and a thick oozing liquid spilt from each gaping wound.

“Are you ok?” Lexa asked, her voice cautious and low, eyes staring at the slice across her shoulder

“Yes,” Alexandria said as she bent down and picked up her knife from the man’s hand before turning in search of her bow.

Hadta dropped down beside them, the handmaiden’s bow half drawn and her gaze cast outwards. She turned to Alexandria for a moment, an apology quick to fall from her lips, “I am sorry,” she said. “I did not wish to risk hitting you.”

“I understand,” Alexandria said, and she didn’t blame the handmaiden for holding fire for as long as she did. “We must hurry,” she continued as she looked out the way they had been travelling.

“Tamen and the others will be close,” Hadta continued, “perhaps they have found their trai—”

A cry echoed out around them, it was sharp, high pitched and all too familiar to her.

Alexandria would recognise Nessa’s voice anywhere, she would recognise the panic she heard, she would recognise the fear and the helplessness. And so she did little more than run, she saw her bow on the ground and she scooped it up as she passed and she ran, she ran and she ran as fast as she could in the direction that Nessa’s cry had come from. Alexandria didn’t care if she left Lexa behind, if only because she was sure her oldest daughter could fend for herself.

All she knew was that she needed to reach Nessa before it was too late.

 

* * *

 

Clarke ran as fast as she could. Each tree branch that scratched as she passed was nothing more than a nuisance that she tried to ignore. Nessa remained held tightly in her arms, the girl’s fear palpable, her weight beginning to weigh heavily in Clarke’s arms.

She was sure someone gave chase, too, but she dared not turn back, she dared not confirm. She didn’t even know how long she had been running for. But she knew she would keep running until she couldn’t anymore.

But perhaps what ever spirits existed on the ground had something else in mind for Clarke’s foot caught a root, she tripped and she tumbled to the ground with a curse and a grunt of pain. She couldn’t help but to crush Nessa against her, but Nessa somehow managed to smother whatever shout of surprise would have been to be expected.

“Sorry,” Clarke gasped as she scrambled to her hands and knees, only to whimper out as she braced herself on her more than likely fractured wrist.

Even Nessa cradled her own wrist to her body gingerly, and perhaps in another life it would have been funny that they had somehow both hurt their wrists, had both somehow found themselves hunted by others who cared not for their safety.

“We have to keep moving,” Clarke said quietly as she managed to scramble closer to Nessa without much more noise.

Nessa seemed too stunned to do more than nod blankly, the girl’s eyes red rimmed, her cheek bleeding from a cut and her hair a mess.

“We have to keep mo—”

But Clarke clicked her mouth shut as she heard the rustle of feet coming to a stop nearby. Nessa heard too, for the girl’s eyes widened, as she seemed to focus on something over Clarke’s shoulder.

Clarke turns ever so slowly, and she found herself peering through the underbrush and at a man who crouched low in the forest, bow and arrow drawn, eyes cast in long slow arcs over the forest as he searched for them.

Clarke knew they wouldn’t get far now, not when they were this close, not when she was already feeling the fatigue setting into her limbs. And perhaps for the first time she found herself taking in the clothes he wore, the markings upon his face, and she realised she found them familiar, found them already known to her.

She remembered Azgeda warriors riding into TonDC during the Mountain’s siege, she remembered some of the clans being unwelcoming of them, some more openly hostile than others, and she remembered Lexa’s story, Lexa’s tale of her past, where the Azgeda ruler had taken someone she had cared for, had delivered her head. And that made Clarke shiver, made her grimace and recoil.

But perhaps she shouldn’t have thought of any of those things for the man’s head snapped to her direction, seemed to have sensed her fears. Clarke cursed herself and pressed her body closer to the ground and the shadows, and she reached out with her uninjured hand to squeeze Nessa’s arm in an attempt to soothe the girl’s shaking.

But the man began to move in their direction, he began to approach with careful step after careful, and Clarke knew it was only a matter of time before he would come upon them, she knew it was only a matter of time before they would be discovered.

And she knew she needed to be brave, that she needed to cast aside whatever fears she had.

And so she took in a deep breath, let the fear turn to anger and fury, and she embraced the adrenaline that began to pump through her veins.

And then she lunged.

Clarke burst out from the shadows, she snarled and the swung her fist as hard as she could at the man. Surprise flashed across his face for only a split second before it turned into a smirk, and Clarke knew that look too well, she recognised it from the way Quint had thought himself the victor, from the way many a grounder had looked at her as nothing more than a helpless youth.

And it made her blood boil.

But that anger? That fury?

It didn’t quite do much more than make her see red.

Clarke’s fist swung out, the man ducked her blow and kicked her squarely in the shin. Pain exploded across her bone and she screamed in anger as she ignored it and pounced on him, her fingers clawing for his eyes. The man managed to roll with the impact though, and Clarke grimaced as she found herself thrown over his body before she came crashing to the ground. She scrambled to her feet, she managed to turn and face him just in time to see a fist swinging for her face, and she ducked, but not fast enough for his hand managed to snare her hair, yank it sharply and bring her to her knees. But Clarke ignored that too and she bared her teeth and punched him as hard as she could in the groin.

Satisfaction flowed through her as the man yelped and lessened his grip on her hair, and as Clarke pulled away she snatched out with her right hand and managed to wrestle a knife free from where he had it strapped to his hip.

The man must have sensed the loss of the weapon though for he kicked out wildly, the strike half blinded by the pain she had inflicted, but enough to make her shrink back and for him to find space.

Clarke came to her feet, eyes flashing in the dark of the forest as she held the knife awkwardly in her right hand. But the man’s eyes met hers, and in them she saw a mirth, something wicked, something unkind and insidious. Her gaze fell to the sword on his hip then, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to do much once he drew it, she knew all she could do was bide Nessa enough time to get away, to hide for long enough that the others could find her.

But the man began to advance slowly, both hands readied in front of him and not reaching for the sword. Clarke didn’t know why the next thought came to mind, she didn’t even know if it was hopeless faith that made her think of it. But she remembered the way the first man had broken down Nessa’s door, how he had not killed her, had not even tried to kill Nessa, had even taken blow after blow across the face before Nessa had stabbed him with his own knife. And now, as Clarke looked at this man who stalked towards her, who kept his sword sheathed, she found herself realising that these people didn’t want her dead, didn’t want her lifeless.

And perhaps that thought should have frightened her, perhaps it should have terrified her. But all it did was spur her on, was make her resolve harden. If only because it meant she had a fighting chance.

And so Clarke rushed forward with a shout of anger. She kicked up dirt and she ignored the burning pain in her wrist as she slashed out as fast as she could.

The man ducked one strike, blocked another and then punched her in the face as he tripped her. But Clarke broke her fall with an awkward roll and she managed to turn and face him. He jumped onto her though, his hand pinned her arm down to her side, but not before she was able to slice into his hip. But he ignored the pain as he pushed her down into the dirt with a grunt and a curse as his knees held her down and as one hand came to close over her mouth to smother her.

Clarke’s eyes widened as she tried to breathe, as she tried to fight him off, but she couldn’t get her arm free, couldn’t fight past the pain in her injured wrist, and she couldn’t even get her feet under her enough to kick him off.

But she heard it. She heard the shriek of anger, of terror, and she couldn’t help but to feel, for only a moment, a sadness that Nessa had to do the things she did.

The man’s head rocked back as an explosion of wood sent him reeling, and Clarke managed to crawl out from under him as Nessa stood over the man with a broken branch held in her one good hand.

Clarke didn’t know if the man was dead, she didn’t know if he was simply unconscious, but she didn’t care enough to check for she heard shouts come from the distance, the heard footsteps crashing through the forest.

And so she stood, she kicked him as hard as she could in the head, and then she grabbed Nessa by the arm and they ran.

They hardly made it more than fifty paces before an arrow sliced through the air past them to thump against a tree trunk before bouncing off.

Clarke realised that even their arrows must be blunted less they seriously injure, and that too made her think that they had a fighting chance. But she knew she couldn’t fight again, could only keep running until they couldn’t anymore, especially from the way Nessa’s ragged breathing was becoming more and more broken. Even her own seemed to break on every breath as her lungs screamed for reprieve.

But it was a cruel twist of fate that the forest seemed to fall away as suddenly as it could ever have done. Clarke didn’t even realise she had run so far that the forest could have thought of leaving them behind.

But Clarke found herself skidding to a half at the edge of the forest, trees to her back and a starkly open landscape dropping down before her from where she and Nessa stood at the edge of a ridgeline.

Clarke cursed, she turned back the way they had run and she saw shadows racing towards them from the forest depths.

“Nessa,” Clarke managed to choke out. “Where do we go?”

But Nessa seemed shaken, seemed too dazed to quite think of much more than to simply hold her hand and squeeze as tightly as she could.

“Nessa,” Clarke said again as she turned back to the girl and crouched down. “Do you know where we are?”

“I—” Nessa choked on a sob, on a broken breath. “I have never been this far,” and Nessa’s resolve seemed ready to break.

“Ok,” and Clarke looked down the ravine and to the open plains below. She thought she even saw the river where she first saw Nessa and Alexandria that must have continued snaking through the lands until it ended up down below. “We’re going to be ok,” Clarke said. “We’re going to be o—”

An arrow slammed into the ground beside them and Clarke spun around to see two men standing before her. One of them held a bow in his hands, the other turned the other way as if he guarded their backs.

“Give us the child,” the man said, he voice low, careful and calm.

“No,” Clarke said as she pushed Nessa behind her.

“Give her to me.”

“No,” Clarke snarled, and she tried to fight back the tears of fatigue that she felt coming, she tried to fight the pains and aches of her body.

“Give her to me,” the man said again as he stepped closer. “Now.”

“No,” and Clarke prepared herself to fight, she prepared herself to do whatever she could.

“Ok,” and the man shrugged as he drew back his bow.

Perhaps Clarke thought she had misjudged their want not to kill. Or at least not to kill her. But she wouldn’t go down without a fight. And so she prepared to rush forward, she felt her body tense and she let what might be her last actions on the earth fill her mind.

And then she—

A shout sounded from the second man before an arrow sliced through the air and silenced him. Clarke’s gaze snapped into the forest to see figures running towards them, and for some reason Clarke thought them not to fear.

But the man reacted fast. She saw a decision come to mind, she saw an acceptance of what was about to happen.

And then he fired.

Clarke gasped, she recoiled and she found herself falling backwards and over the edge of the ravine as the arrow flashed forwards, its point glinting, sharp and ready to take life from any that stood in its way.

Clarke fell, she fell and she fell, and she cursed as she felt Nessa’s body tumble with hers. Clarke was sure the arrow had missed her though for she didn’t feel any sharp stabbing pain, she didn’t feel any impact. But then she felt it.

She felt the rock and dirt and mud and stick slam into her body as she toppled down the ravine’s edge. Even Nessa yelped out in pain before her voice was silenced to the impacts as they both continued to tumble down and down and down.

Clarke lost count of how many times she hit the side of the ravine, she lost count of how many times she expected to lose consciousness after each impact, and she lost count of how many times she was sure she was about to die.

Pain exploded over every part of her body with each impact, and at times she was certain she saw Nessa’s body fly over hers, under hers, past hers as they both continued to tumble down.

And then it was over.

Clarke slammed into the ground, into softened grass that broke her fall. Her body ached, she was sure she had broken bones, and she couldn’t believe she wasn’t dead, she couldn’t believe she wasn’t bleeding out.

It took her a long moment to clear the daze from her mind, and she couldn’t help but to think she her luck must have run out now, that whatever happened next would be it for her.

She coughed up blood then, the taste bitter and acidic and tangy. But the motion made her ribs ache, made her vision swim and she was sure it wasn’t a question of if her ribs were broken, but of how many.

“Nessa,” she managed to choke out only to wince as pain seemed to flare in what she could only think of as her lungs. “Ness—” she spluttered on more blood as she tried to roll onto her side, as she tried to find her feet only to collapse on the ground. “Ne—” Clarke began to cough, began to see stars, see blood and pain and hurt and anguish. “Nessa,” her vision cleared, she shook her head and she staggered to her feet only to fall to her knees in a daze. Clarke called out for Nessa again, and she listened. But no answer came.

“Clarke,” her name was called from somewhere over her shoulder.

Or perhaps it wasn’t quite her name for it sounded far more broken than she had ever heard. It sounded far more desperate than she had ever heard her name. And she knew it wasn’t her name because it came again, but this time it was a ragged, broken, wet and wheezing gasp that sounded more like that of a dying animal.

Clarke turned in search of the sound, and what she saw broke her, what she saw made her heart ache and her mind scream and her pains return tenfold.

Nessa lay on the ground, blood covered her body, her face and any part of flesh exposed by her torn clothes. Clarke was sure even her own body had fared little better. But that wasn’t what scared her the most.

What scared her the most was the arrow shaft that had pierced Nessa’s throat, had lodged itself so deeply into the girl’s neck that it protruded out the other side. Blood pulled at the girl’s lips, her eyes watered in pain and desperation and fear, and Clarke saw her trying to move, trying to get to her feet, trying to do more than simply lie on the ground and die.

“No,” Clarke didn’t quite know what her voice sounded like as she staggered over to Nessa. “No,” she didn’t know if she screamed, if she cried, if she whispered or begged. “Nessa,” and Clarke fell to her knees beside the girl. “Nessa,” and she found her body breaking as tears began to fall, as pain and guilt began to take hold. “Nessa,” she reached for the girl’s hand, only to find it weak, clammy and cold. “You’re going to be ok,” Clarke whispered as she cradled the girl in her arms. “You’re going to be ok,” and she didn’t know if she lied to Nessa for her sake or her own. “You’re going to be ok.”


	14. Chapter 14

“Hold on,” Clarke managed to choke out past the tears and blood. “Hold on,” her head shook and her hands trembled as she held Nessa’s hand as tightly as she could.

Nessa tried to say something only for it to die painfully somewhere upon her lips. But Clarke shook her head, wipe the back of her hand across her face in an attempt to clear her vision only to wince at the pain that seemed to be spreading through every part of her body.

“Don’t try to talk, Nessa,” Clarke whispered to her.

But Nessa’s lips quivered, they began to tremble and Clarke’s heart broke as she saw tears beginning to fall down the girl’s cheeks, as they began to cut a path through her blood stained face.

“I’m going to be right here,” Clarke said. “I’m not leaving,” and Nessa reached out for her, fingers trembling.

But Clarke’s mind started turning back the days and nights and weeks and years until she recalled the times she had spent on the Ark under her mother’s care, when she had only just begun her training as a medical assistant. And she knew enough, she had read enough and had learned enough that she shouldn’t pull the arrow free, that the fact that Nessa hadn’t yet died was because of any number of reasons. Perhaps the arrow hadn’t pierced or severed any arteries or she would have bled out in seconds, or that it had nicked an artery, and that its presence was keeping pressure on the wound, was in some way plugging it for now.

“You’re going to be ok, Nessa,” Clarke said, and she thought her voice came more firmly, conviction finding a place past the anguish and worry. “You’re going to be ok,” and Nessa grimaced as she swallowed, as her body tried to dislodge the arrow.

But as Nessa bared her teeth, as she tried to relax, tried to say something Clarke couldn’t help but to think the blood that filled her mouth was from the split lip she could see, and not from the wound caused by the arrow, and yet again Clarke found herself recalling all she knew of the throat’s anatomy, and she knew enough to know that a punctured esophagus or trachea would cause Nessa to cough up blood, would cause her to choke and to suffocate and drown on her own blood. But as Clarke continued to hold Nessa down, as she whispered words that tried to soothe, she thought none of those things happening.

And perhaps it was a miracle, perhaps Nessa was the luckiest girl to have ever been shot in the neck.

Or perhaps it wasn’t luck, if only because no one shot in the neck could be counted as being lucky.

“You’re going to be ok, Nessa,” Clarke said again, and she smiled, if only because she felt the hope beginning to rise with each passing second that Nessa struggled not to panic, not to scream, not to do anything but lie on the ground in her embrace.

Clarke looked back up the way they came, and as she squinted past the blood dripping into her eye she was sure she could see movement on the ridgeline, she thought she could see people crashing against others, each one locked in deadly battle, but she turned her attention back to Nessa as the girl began to cry, as broken sobs began to escape.

“I know it hurts,” Clarke whispered, and she squeezed Nessa’s hand, “I know you’re afraid, Nessa,” and Clarke didn’t know what else to say. “But you’re going to be ok, I’m not going to let you die,” and she shook her head as she remembered what Lexa had said, what she had been told. “I’m not going to let you die. Not today. Not tomorrow and not ever,” and Clarke smiled past the tears that fell. “I’m Wanheda,” and she choked past the name. “I tell death what to do,” and she reached out and wiped away a tear that fell from Nessa’s eye, “and death’s not coming for you ever.”

Clarke didn’t know if her words had calmed Nessa, or if it was the loss of blood, or if her body was simply shutting down, but Nessa seemed to settle a little more comfortably in her arms, seemed to embrace whatever it was that happened.

But something told Clarke that she should inspect Nessa, should make sure the girl wasn’t bleeding anywhere else.

“Nessa,” Clarke whispered before coughing and spluttering as her ribs protested the slight movement she made. “I need to check the arrow,” and Clarke saw Nessa’s eyes widen, she saw fear beginning to return. “I’m not going to do anything,” and Clarke whimpered a little as she bent over Nessa. “I promise. But I need to make sure you’re ok,” and Clarke tried to fight back the tears. “Do you trust me?”

Nessa looked her in the eyes for a long time, but Clarke saw an answer in the way the girl’s eyes never wavered, in how the green seemed to glow with an intensity and a desperate belief that made her heart beat even more steadily than it had before.

“This might hurt a bit,” Clarke said quietly. “I’m sorry,” but Nessa seemed to accept whatever words Clarke would say for she simply blinked and nodded ever so subtly before wincing to the pain.

Clarke slowly let her fingers trace across the girl’s throat, and though she didn’t quite know if what she did would even give her more information than she had guessed, she thought it couldn’t hurt to try to feel for a tear, for a puncture wound, for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. But as Clarke came to the other side of Nessa’s throat, the only thing she felt was the swelling of the puncture wound where the arrow had pierced through her neck.

“Nessa,” Clarke whispered, and she saw the girl’s eyes snap to hers. “Can you swallow for me?” and Clarke was sure the motion would tell her enough.

Nessa seemed to consider her question for a long moment before she seemed to steel herself to whatever pain would be felt.

“You don’t need t—” but Nessa seemed to disagree from the way she glared, and at any other time it would have been funny, or perhaps it was. The shock, the adrenaline, or something else made it so Clarke couldn’t help but to laugh for a moment before gasping in pain as her ribs protested yet again. “Sorry,” Clarke whispered as she clasped her hands together as they shook more than she wished they would.

And so Nessa met her gaze again, seemed to say something deeper than words could convey with her gaze, and then she swallowed, the motion shallow, careful and full of apprehension. She winced halfway through the motion, her throat seemed to recoil to the motion and she bared her teeth again as her eyes closed and as tears fell.

And Clarke had expected her to cough up blood, to splutter and choke, but none of that came, and perhaps for the very first time since realising just how seriously wounded Nessa was, she found relief flooding her veins.

“You’re going to be ok, Nessa,” Clarke said, and this time she knew her voice came out firm, strong and full of belief. “I promise you’re going to be ok.”

Nessa seemed to believe more and more with each passing second, but Clarke thought she needed to check the girl’s voice, needed to make sure nothing else had been damaged.

“Nessa,” Clarke said as she reached out and brushed away the hair from her face. “Can you say something for me?” and Clarke tried to think of what to do. “It doesn’t need to be long, just a word, I just need to make sure you can still talk,” and as those words left her mouth she saw panic begin to rise in Nessa’s eyes again, if only because Clarke was sure that to the girl losing her voice would be far too scary for her to deal with. And who could blame her?

But Nessa seemed to stamp down her fear as quickly as it had begun to rise, and Clarke smiled, squeezed the girl’s shoulder as comfortingly as she could.

And then Nessa’s lips parted, she seemed to think for a moment and then, “Kla—”

A wail broke the silence, and it was full of anguish and desperation.

Clarke’s head snapped up to the sound to see Alexandria rushing down the side of the ravine, but Clarke knew in Alexandria’s desperation, in her fear, that she would crash against Nessa, that she would hug her close, would do something to dislodge the arrow, would do something to risk making her injuries worse.

And so Clarke grit her teeth as she forced herself to stand, as she forced herself to face the desperate mother. Clarke’s ribs ached, her legs shook and her vision began to swim as she urged her feet forward. She called out to Alexandria as the woman skidded onto flatter ground. She called out to Alexandria as the woman began to rush towards her, and Clarke staggered into Alexandria’s path, reached out and grasped her as tightly as she could.

“Stop,” Clarke gasped past the pain. “Stop,” and she grit her teeth as Alexandria began to struggle, began to throw her off. “Stop,” Clarke gasped and she found her legs giving way. “You can’t touch her,” and Clarke groaned as Alexandria twisted her arm, as she forced her off. “Alexandria,” Clarke managed to choke out as her vision faded. “You have to be gentle, you have to be careful,” and Clarke fell to her knees, one hand desperately trying to hold onto Alexandria’s clothing.

Clarke’s desperation must have given Alexandria pause for the woman faltered in her frantic dash towards Nessa, something seemed to make it through the haze of motherhood and Clarke thought she saw an understanding dawning on her face.

And so the last thing Clarke saw before she lost consciousness was Alexandria as she shrugged her hand off her clothes before she settled down next to her daughter and cradled her as gently as she could in her arms.


	15. Chapter 15

Clarke dreamt she was falling, spinning, tumbling and turning. She thought herself shaken, beaten and battered left and right. She felt the heat of the flames, that licked against metal and she felt the tang of burning that filled her senses.

Pain seemed to ebb and flow with each breath she took. Her chest seemed to ache, her lungs seemed to protest each expansion and she felt her bones groan with each little jolt of motion she was sure she felt.

Sunlight seemed to dapple against her closed eyes, or perhaps not sunlight, if only because she could feel the heat, could feel it more strongly than any sunlight she had ever felt before. And that burning, that searing, that pain came stronger and stronger and faster and more furiously with each passing second.

Clarke’s eyes snapped open, light stabbed into her eyes and she flinched, she recoiled, she tried to shy away from the brightness only for her motions to be met with pain, with stabbing aches that made her body twist and clench and spasm uncontrollably.

But before Clarke could do much more than begin to cry out in shock, in pain and anger, she felt strong hands grip her shoulders, grip her ankles, hold her down and keep her steady.

At first she didn’t care who it was, at first she didn’t care where she was, all that she cared for was the fact that the pain seemed to ebb, seemed to flow, seemed to ease with each passing second. But then, as her mind settled, she found herself blinking away the wetness in her eyes, and she came to focus on the ceiling overhead.

Clarke found herself in a tent of fur and leathers and fabrics. The colours were a patchwork of browns, dusty yellows and dirtied darks. Flames burned throughout the tent’s interior, and the smells of scents, of spices and so many other things she knew she should recognise lingered in the air.

Clarke swallowed then, the motion dry, coarse and burning, but what came next was a wracking cough, something that brought stabbing pains into her chest, into her torso, to where she was sure her lungs were, and try as she might, Clarke couldn’t suppress the cough, couldn’t fight the pain, all she could do was embrace it until it subsided.

She tasted blood upon her lips, she felt it coat her tongue, and she found herself half gagging, half choking on it before a damp cloth was pressed to her lips gingerly.

And then she remembered.

Clarke remembered the warriors, she remembered the violence, she remembered the fear, Jaxta’s lifeless body so cruelly discarded in pieces. She remembered the fall, the tumble, the pain and the fear.

And she remembered Nessa.

Clarke blinked back the tears and the still too blinding light, she tried to rise only to double over in pain and be pushed back onto the bed she found herself lying on.

“Do not move,” a man’s voice said, his tone gentle, his words deep.

“Ne—” Clarke choked, spluttered and pain seared inside her.

“Do not talk,” the man said again, and this time Clarke was sure she heard a hint of apology and sympathy in his tone.

“Whe—” a pause, enough that Clarke could fight through the pain. “Nessa? Where is she?”

“She is ok,” the man said as he eased her shoulders back.

Perhaps if Clarke was more abled, if her mind didn’t seem so fuzzed to the world, she would question more, would demand answers, would threaten and revolt, but the pain seemed to sap her energy, the aches seemed to dull her mind, and the hands that gripped her shoulders, and the ones that held her ankles still, seemed to soothe her into a trance, into a stupor that left her unwilling to fight more than she already had.

“Rest, Wanheda” a second voice said, this one female, young, youthful and calm.

And so Clarke found her eyes closing, she found her mind settling, and she found her body falling into a sleep not so peaceful, and not so calm.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s eyes opened to dimmed light and the sounds of rustling coming from somewhere behind her. It took her a moment to remember where she was. It must have been nighttime from the slightest hints of the sky she could see in a crack in the tent’s fabric. Stars seemed to sparkle, and even the traces of a single cloud drifted by before it disappeared from view.

Clarke found herself lying in a small bed, a thin sheet covered her lower half, her chest and torso wrapped in layers of white fabric that was scented and seemed to be coated with a thin layer of paste. Bruises blossomed across what little bits of her skin she could see, her left wrist was wrapped and braced, the fingers of her other hand seemed swollen, fingernails chipped, one even missing.

From the aching across her nose and cheeks, Clarke was sure that even her face hadn’t fared much better. Her breathing still remained laboured, each breath seemed to stab into her, seemed to want to bring spasms of pain with it, but perhaps in her unconsciousness, her mind had adapted to the pain, had settled into shallower breath.

She heard the rustling stop then, and as she tried to look around, as she tried to find the source of the sounds, she felt a hand settle on her shoulder and keep her down into the bed.

“Do not move, Wanheda,” that same man’s voice came again.

“How—” she paused yet again as pain seemed to flare. “How long?”

“Four days,” he answered as he came to kneel down beside her, and as his face came into focus Clarke found herself looking into weathered face, tattooed, and beard streaked with grey.

“Where’s Nessa?” Clarke said as she settled deeper into the bed.

“She is with another healer,” the man answered, and Clarke felt the worry beginning to form again, she felt the fear and the apprehension beginning to spike.

“I wa—” she coughed only to quiver with the pain that stabbed into her side. “I want to see her.”

“You are in no state to move,” he said, and this time Clarke heard the firmness in his voice. And though, if she were in better health, she would have pushed, would have fought more, she found even now, with just the short conversation taking place, that her mind already began to swim again, that her senses already seemed to be turning dull and muddled.

But the man sighed, seemed to sense her want, her determination despite her physical state, and so he rose to his feet, seemed to eye her for another long moment before he turned for the tent’s entrance and ducked out.

Clarke didn’t quite know what to do then, if only because she found herself confined to the bed through injury alone, and yet she had questions she needed answered, she had unknowns to be revealed, and she had fears that needed to be dashed.

And so, however foolish it might have been, Clarke forced herself onto her side, she let the pain blossom through her body and she grimaced and grunted and grit her teeth as she forced her legs over the side of the bed. Planting her feet onto the fur covered floor was more difficult than she had ever anticipated such a motion to ever be, but as she did she found her determination beginning to build. As she sat, she found that supporting her weight on her single unbroken arm was the only thing she could do to lessen the pain.

Clarke took in as deep a breath as she dared, she locked her eyes onto a shadow that seemed to dance to the flickering of a flame and she began to rise. Her legs came shaky and unsteady, her breath quickened and her knees wobbled beneath her, and Clarke thought she could stand, she thought she could make it to her full height.

But she thought wrong.

As soon as Clarke stood enough that the arm supporting her weight left the bed, she felt pain race up her side, stab into her ribs and she let out a curse, a yelp and a gasp as she fell back onto the bed with an awkward twitching that left her breathless.

She heard the distinct sounds of weapons being drawn then, and as Clarke looked to the tent’s entrance she found it bursting open as two warriors stepped inside, one with a sword already drawn, another with a knife in each hand, both their gazes searching as they began to move through the tent.

“Wanheda,” one said, the woman’s voice sharp and clear as she came to stand over her as the warrior with the sword circled the tent, eyes quick to peer into every shadow that could hide whoever it was he searched for.

“I’m ok,” Clarke managed to say, her voice a little breathless.

“We heard you shout,” the woman said simply.

“It was nothing,” and Clarke looked over her shoulder as the man came to stand behind her, the sound of his sword being sheathed quietly filling the tent.

“There is no one,” he said.

“There’s no one here,” Clarke managed to say as she settled herself back onto the bed awkwardly.

Both warriors seemed not to take her word for it though because they looked around once more, both far too careful in their search before they nodded to her just once.

“Do you need anything?” the woman asked.

“No,” Clarke tried not to let her mind jump to conclusions. “Wait,” she added as the two warriors began to move to the exit. “Where am I?”

“In the forests,” the woman answered with a simply nod before she ducked outside after the man.

And with that Clarke found her thoughts sifting through what she now knew. And perhaps it shouldn’t surprise her that she was under guard, especially with what had happened. But she needed and wanted more answers than she was given, she needed to know where Nessa was, if the girl was ok, for Clarke refused to believe any more harm could befall the girl than had already happened.

Clarke’s thoughts were interrupted by yet another coughing fit, and once again she tasted blood on her lips, and she knew enough that she must have internal injuries, that the fall must have broken more than just bones, and that she was lucky to still be alive, to not have damaged more than she had.

But Clarke couldn’t feel sorry for herself, not when there were others she worried for, and not when she had done the things she had done in her life. But for she would take things one step at a time.

And s—

The tent’s entrance opened with a gentle swaying, and as Clarke looked up she saw that same man, grey streaked beard and weathered face, step inside before making space for whoever followed him.

Lexa ducked into the tent behind the man.

Gone was the ceremonious red sash and pauldron, gone was the long flowing coat, and in its place were metals and leathers, layered and patterned together intricately to create something Clarke could recognise as equal parts ornate armour, and practical protection.

Perhaps the last few days, maybe even weeks, had been such a blur for her that she hadn’t had time to really adjust to the things that had happened, and maybe it was the fact that now she lay in a bed, hardly covered by more than thin sheets of fabric while Lexa stood looking at her dressed for battle, but Clarke found her emotions flaring, and she couldn’t quite determine whether she felt anger, hate, regret, embarrassment or some other odd sensation that she had hardly let herself accept since that first time they had reconnected in the forest when she had held the knife to Lexa’s throat.

“Leave us,” Lexa’s voice cut into her thoughts, and Clarke watched as the man bowed his head and ducked out the tent with hardly a sound.

“Where’s Ne—”

“Nes—”

An awkward dance of body language full of uncertainty and trepidation seemed to fill the tent’s interior, maybe it lasted only a few short seconds, perhaps more, but through it all Clarke could feel their shared past bubbling just under the surface.

“Speak, Klark.”

And so she took a breath only to grimace past the pain in her ribs before forcing herself to look Lexa in the eyes.

“Is Nessa—” she paused off for only a moment. “—How is she?”

Perhaps if Lexa was any other person, Clarke would have been certain she her lip quiver and tremble for only a moment before closing her eyes just long enough for it to not be a subconscious decision.

But Lexa’s eyes opened and Clarke found it void of any emotion, void of anything other than a numbness that somehow seemed to convey determination and an anger. Lexa looked around the tent, reached for a chair that sat in a shadow before pulling it to her and coming to sit facing the bed Clarke lay atop.

“Lexa,” Clarke said quietly, desperately. “Tell me.”

“Nessa is—” whatever emotions Lexa seemed to be holding back almost broke free from their shackles, and as Clarke watched Lexa’s hand squeeze around her knee tightly, she found her heart breaking, she found her vision beginning to blur. “Nessa is still alive.”

It felt as though a weight was lifted from Clarke’s shoulders, off her chest, and it made her feel lighter than she had felt in days. And though she knew she had come to care for Nessa, perhaps she hadn’t quite let herself truly accept just how much she had helped her.

“Her wounds are severe,” Lexa continued, her voice cold, emotionless now, and perhaps for the barest of moments, Clarke found herself recalling the way Lexa had looked at the foot of the Mountain, the way she had sounded when she had revealed her deal with Mountain Men to leave her and her people people.

“Can I see her?” Clarke whispered.

“She has not woken in two days,” Lexa answered, and Clarke felt her heart drop. “She fights infection and blood loss,” and Lexa seemed to snarl the words out as tightly as she could, as if her reluctance to voice whatever truths she knows could change their very nature.

“I can help,” Clarke said as she tried to roll onto her side, as she tried to prove that she could do more than simply lie on a bed. “Let me see her. I can help.”

But Lexa shook her head, seemed to have anticipated and discarded the offer before it was even fully voiced.

“You are too hurt to move, Klark,” Lexa said simply.

“No,” and Clarke found her angers flaring, “Let me—” she tried to push herself up into a seated position yet again only to struggle, arm weak and unsteady as it supported her weight. “Don’t be an idiot,” Clarke wouldn’t dare admit she gave up as she fell back onto the bed, but she felt a flood of relief as the strain in her torso lessened. “I can help her. Let me see Nessa.”

But Lexa shook her head.

“You will rest, Klark,” Lexa said.

“You’re being stupid,” and Clarke didn’t care that she insulted the Commander of the twelve clans, she didn’t care that she was in such a state of undress, that her body ached, that her mind screamed out for her to simply lie back and to rest.

And Lexa didn’t seem to care either for she simply reclined in her chair, seemed to let the weight that rested upon her shoulders slide off, and relax a little more fully into the chair.

“It is late, Klark,” Lexa said as she reached for something in the shadows. “Drink this,” and Clarke eyed the mug Lexa now held in her hands.

“What is it?” and Clarke didn’t quite think Lexa would poison her, would offer her anything that would hurt.

“It will help with the pain.”

“If I drink it, will you let me see Nessa?” Clarke asked, and she could deny the fact that a little pain relief would be welcomed.

Lexa took a moment to think, she seemed to ponder and juggle with whatever worries filled her mind.

“Yes, Klark,” Lexa said as she stood and took a step forward, the mug held out for Clarke to take.

And so Clarke scrunched her nose up to the smell for only a split second before pain snaked up the side of her face and then she reached out and took a deep sip of the warm liquid.

Lexa reached out, took the mug from her and put it back where she had retrieved it. But she began to turn for the tent’s exit, the armour she wore clinking only a little with the movements she made.

“Wait,” Clarke said as she tried to follow Lexa’s movements with her vision only to find her eyes seemed to be heavier than they were mere moments ago. “You said you’d take me to Nessa,” and Clarke found a flash of anger beginning to rise, beginning to take hold as her head fell back onto the pillow.

Lexa paused by the tent’s exit, turned to look back at her, and perhaps for a moment Clarke was sure she saw a regret living within the green hidden in a shadow.

“It is late, Klark,” Lexa began. “Sleep,” and as if on command, Clarke found herself beginning to fall deeper into her own mind. “We arrive at Arkadia tomorrow.”


	16. Chapter 16

The lands stretched out for as far as she could see. The morning air whistled around her with a chill, a might, a want and with such careless abandon that she couldn’t help but to wonder if this was how her namesake felt when its wings embraced the billowing of the winds.

Raven took in a deep breath, the air fresh, cool, crisp and calm. But despite the calm of her mind, pain ebbed in her hip, seemed to linger at the base of her spine, seemed to even splinter down her leg at times when she least expected. But that was a part of life now, was something she thought would be a constant companion.

As Raven looked up into the sky, whose colour had only just begun to chase away the night, she found herself reliving the times she had floated through space, when gravity had taken hold and had let her live in her own little world for as long as she could. She missed it, she missed that feeling of weightlessness, of isolation, of floating.

And perhaps it saddened her to think that now, on the ground, the closest she would ever get to that feeling again would be up where she sat, legs dangling precariously over the edge of what had once been the Ark.

But maybe she didn’t mind, at least not so much.

But for why, she couldn’t quite tell.

People moved about far below, their size ant-like, small, some with purpose, others with lazy motion. It surprised Raven, too, just how quickly her people had fallen into the rhythm they now lived. She watched as the first of the early morning patrol broke through the trees and began the winding journey through the far too awkwardly cleared forest land towards the gates of Arkadia, she watched as they passed the next patrol who were to take their place. She gazed down upon a building only having just begun the early stages of construction, whose mismatch of wood and metal and scavenged scrap seemed oddly similar to the buildings she had seen in Ton DC.

Maybe that revelation, that realisation was a little humbling, was a little saddening. Perhaps it made her realise that despite all the conflicts, all the misunderstandings, all the false starts and near misses, Skaikru and Trikru, even the other clans, weren’t so different from one another.

But Raven remembered being tied to that pillar, she remembered the knives that had only just begun to slice into her flesh, and for a moment she shivered, she grimaced and she ran a hand across the lumpy scar that scratched down the inside of her arm. And perhaps, for only a moment, she hoped that future didn’t await her people.

She took in one last deep breath of air, and she knew she wouldn’t taste anything quite so fresh until the next time she was up there so she savoured it as much as she could. She pulled her legs over the railing, careful as always not to slip, not to lose her footing, and then she turned for the open airlock, whose door she had shimmied open with far too much ingenuity for her own good.

And so Raven, with aching body, and smile in place, made her way through the remains of what had once been her home, and towards the ground that awaited her.

 

* * *

 

The Ark’s interior remained dimmed, the lights they had on at half power to conserve what little energy they could while things were being rebuilt. The people Raven passed nodded or smiled at her, some familiar, some in simple greeting. And that, too, was odd, for Raven had never quite had time to venture much outside of her station, had never really had an opportunity to interact with people she normally wouldn’t, when even deciding who you would eventually be paired with to start a family, was strictly controlled.

But now things were different, and yet, she still found it a little odd.

And of all the things that were different? The one that she was sure was at the forefront of everyone’s mind, were the grounders, were the Trikru, those that were in the trees, that she was sure followed every single scouting party as they explored as far as they dared.

And it wasn’t thathostilities had erupted since the Mountain’s fall, but it was tense, especially with the Commander’s decision to abandon them, to leave them to the mercy of the Mountain Men.

Raven had even heard of some who wanted to seek revenge, to go out and fight, claim more land for themselves, but she didn’t think that likely to happen, if only because she hoped cooler heads would prevail.

But the grounders seemed to be less inclined to violence, too, if only because scouts had been sent to them, with opportunity for trade, perhaps as a way for the Commander to gauge how hostile Skaikru had become, or to determine if they were open to trade. Despite what appeared to be, albeit a small peace offering, Raven still held a grudge.

Before long Raven came to stand beside what had now become the main entrance to the Ark. She found it a little funny that when the Ark had been in space, this very same entrance had simply been a maintenance hatch, just large enough to fit a team of space-walkers and their equipment through without too much hassle.

A man walked by, his clothes a combination of synthetic fibres, worn and weathered from years of self-repair, and a layer of thick fur that Raven guessed he managed to trade before things had soured between them and the grounders.

“Raven,” she turned at the sound of her name being called to find Monty walking her way, shadows under his eyes, a grease stain across his chin.

“Monty,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Oh,” he paused for a moment to shrug, to wipe a a lock of dark hair behind his ear. “Not much. The usual.”

Raven didn’t miss the way his eyes turned downwards at the end.

“Jasper?” she asked.

“The usual,” he answered with a shrug that seemed as much sad acceptance and annoyance.

The patrol she had spied from the airlock so high above walked past then, three men and two women, each one weary, eager for sleep and rest. From their expressions Raven could tell they had found little sign of what they searched for either, and for a moment she couldn’t help but to feel a pang of sadness and guilt, and perhaps a number of other emotions she was sure a therapist would rather she discuss than push back into the corners of her mind.

“Still no sign of Clarke,” Monty said quietly, and Raven looked to him to find his gaze turned outwards, through the electrified fence and into the forest beyond.

“She’s dead,” and Raven didn’t mean for it to sound so cold, so callous, so empty of emotion.

“You don’t know that,” Monty said.

“We don’t know she’s alive,” and Raven shrugged for she didn’t know whether she envied Clarke, whether she pitied her, or simply resented the fact that she had abandoned them. “Sorry,” but perhaps Raven didn’t want to burden Monty with anymore than he already suffered. “I didn’t mean that.”

“You did,” Monty said, and she fell into step beside him, her limp more exaggerated now as she tried to keep up with his brisk pace.

“Yeah,” and Raven winced as she slipped over a small puddle of mud, her knee jarring enough to cause a stab of pain up her thigh. She was appreciated of the way Monty noticed, but kept walking, his pace unbroken by her troubles. “I did. But still, I’m sorry,” and Raven was, if only because she’d be lying to herself if she said she had never wished she could just leave, just take what few belongings had survived the crash to the ground and make a new life for herself without worry, without hurt and pain and anguish. “She was your friend as much as mine,” Raven finished.

They came to a stop by her workshop then, its large doors locked shut, its presence so far removed from the rest of Arkadia’s main dwellings a safety precaution lest something go wrong.

“She’s still alive,” Monty said as he fumbled for the only other pair of keys Raven dared allow to exist. “I believe it.”

“Do you?” Raven asked.

“Yeah,” Monty said with a grunt as he began to pull open the doors. “She got us through a lot,” he continued. “Sometimes I didn’t appreciate it. Sometimes I got angry at her,” and he paused. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I wouldn’t be here without her.”

Raven found herself wondering what Clarke had had on her own life then. And perhaps she found a little glimmer of regret pooling in the pit of her stomach at the things they had both shared and endured. But Raven didn’t think herself as someone to linger on the past, if only because there were so many things she wished had turned out differently.

And so she sighed, reached for the light switch by the doors and let the click as they turned on echo around her.

“Come on,” she said as she jerked her head towards the nearest pile of tech. “We’ve got things to sor—”

A cloud of birds broke free from the trees, their shape haphazard, swarming and vibrant. What followed was the distinct sounds of horses racing through the forest. But then a low horn echoed out, its sound deep, impactful, and able to bring back memories that made her skin prickle and crawl.

“What—” Monty’s eyes widened when he turned to face the forest.

From across the clearing riders broke free, Raven counted five, each one’s horse panting heavily in the morning air, each rider urging them on faster and faster across the land. Skaikru guards began shouting, Raven saw some running to man the guard towers, she even saw others beginning to shout out warnings as they fled for cover for whatever impending violence was to come.

“Shit,” Monty swore, his hands fumbling for whatever thing was closest to him. “What the fuck,” Raven watched as his fingers trembled. “Run, Raven,” and he began to pull her out from the workshop and towards Arkadia’s main entrance that was now swarmed by other people trying to enter.

“Wait,” and Raven shrugged him off as she took a step from the workshop and towards the main gates that were now barred.

“Wait?” it came incredulous.

“They aren’t here to attack us,” and Raven jerked her thumb towards the riders that were now pulling up a stone’s throw from the gates.

Perhaps it was foolish, a desperate hope that violence had left her behind, or perhaps it was simply naivety, but whatever the case, Raven for some unknown reason, didn’t think these grounders were here to attack, were here to cause death and destruction.

She watched as a man swung over the side of his horse and landed on the ground with a thump, his chest rising as the others came to steady their own horses behind him.

As Raven continued to approach the gates, she saw that his face had wounds across it, fresh, sliced, that looked like he had been attacked. Even his beard, slightly greyed with age, was streaked with the blood, but she didn’t think the blood the man’s own.

“We have wounded,” he called out, his voice softer than she had anticipated.

“Who are you?” someone called out, and Raven only barely recognised the man’s voice from her short time on the ground.

“I am Dhorma Kom Trikru,” the warrior replied as he came to a pause outside the gates, arms widespread as a guard levelled his rifle at him through the slats in the gates. “We have wounded that need Skaikru healers. Open the gates.”

“Why should we trust you?” the man replied, and Raven’s eyes narrowed as she looked at the speaker, skin dark, bald head gleaming in the rising sunlight.

“Open the gates,” Dhorma said again, and Raven’s gaze moved to the others with him, one whose hand held a spear, gaze keenly focused on a guard in a tower, who Raven was sure, would soon be targeted should violence break out.

“Where’s your wounded?” and Raven turned to find Bellamy pushing his way forward, the man’s gaze worried, eyes searching each grounder who waited outside the gates.

“They are in the forests,” Dhorma replied as he turned his attention to Bellamy.

Raven turned back to Bellamy, and she saw him consider, saw him try to gauge what to do, what to say, and yet for another time Raven found herself trusting, found herself believing that these grounders wished no harm. And perhaps she would worry about the consequences at another time.

And so, “let them in, Bel,” she said as she hobbled forward, pushed a guardswoman out of her way. “They aren’t here to attack us or else there’d be more,” and Raven glanced towards Dhorma to see perhaps the most open expression of relief she had ever seen on a grounder’s face before. “Look,” and she reached for Bellamy as she passed. “If there’s more and things get out of hand feel free to shoot them, but there’s five. And they need help.”

Perhaps it was the shock of the appearance, or perhaps it was some other thing that urged him forwards, but whatever it was, Raven was glad that Bellamy began to move of his own free will, stride quick to overtake hers as he came to the levers that locked the gates shut.

“How many are wounded?” Bellamy asked, and Raven looked to Dhorma to see him consider the question for a long moment.

“Two,” the man replied.

“See,” Raven said as she thumped Bellamy’s shoulder. “They’re no threat.”

And with that the gates began to open with a creak and a groan, but before the gates had even fully opened the warriors pushed their way inside, each one suddenly with weapon in hand as they began to push Bellamy back and away from the lever.

“Hey—” surprised flashed across Bellamy’s face as Dhorma reached out, pulled his arm from the lever and shoved Bellamy back and away, one hand quick to fall to his knife, the other firmly placed on the lever.

“Wha—” Raven’s words were cut short by another horn call, and she grimaced as the warrior, a woman with dark skin and one single mighty braid down her back continued to blow the horn for another long moment before releasing it.

“Get back,” Bellamy snarled, and Raven’s head whipped around to see Bellamy already reaching for his rifle, already lowering his stance.

And it happened quickly, Dhorma’s fist punched out faster than Raven could have expected, it caught Bellamy squarely in the nose. The woman who had blown the horn raced forward, gripped her by the shoulder and spun her around and pulled her to her chest.

And it was fast, violent, swift and deadly. Other guards reacted, some began to raise their weapon’s too, but the three other warriors targeted those closest to them, and Raven gasped in surprise as a knife was thrown, as it embedded itself in one guards shoulder, she grimaced at the strain in her hip as a managed to level their rifle and fire, only for the shot to go wide as a warrior, this one a man, short in stature, but swift and stocky, tackled him, kneed him in the stomach and flipped him onto the ground before resting his knife across the guard’s throat.

“We will not harm you further,” Dhorma said, his voice still that same calm and quiet tone. “But you will heal our wounded.”

Bellamy grunted out something between curse and retort as he staggered to his feet, his nose now bloodied and clearly broken. As he came to his feet his gaze narrowed towards Raven, it seemingly half accusing, half questioning her safety, but Raven knew he couldn’t do much just as she couldn’t.

But then she heard it once more.

And it was a rumbling, a trembling, a deafening sound.

The woman who held her turned to look behind them, and as Raven turned with her, she found her jaw dropping and her eyes widening at the sight she saw.

Warriors streamed from the forest, far more than a hundred, each one fierce, each one clearly ready to kill, to maim, to die for whatever it was that urged them forward. At their front rode a woman, the red of her sash clearly visible, the glint in her eyes keen for all to see despite the distance.

As all those warriors atop horse came crashing through the clearing, as some peeled off from the main group and began to circle Arkadia, and as the others burst through the open gates, Raven found herself wondering if she had misjudged, if she had guessed wrong, if she had just doomed her people to whatever swift and violent death these warriors would bring.

But as that thought entered her mind Raven felt herself be released from the woman’s grasp, even the others who had first appeared seemed to relax, seemed to calm as more and more warriors rush in through the open gates.

Raven staggered over to Bellamy, the man’s shock clear for all to see as they took in the warriors that began to dismount their horses and fill the area.

“If this goes south it’s on you,” Bellamy grimaced.

“Shut up, Bel,” Raven said, and as she continued to look at the warriors, as she continued to eye the way they began moving, she found something up, something strange.

It took her a moment, it took her even longer to catch glimpse of the Commander who had disappeared within the mess of new bodies present, but as the mass of warriors began to move towards Arkadia’s entrance, she realised they all walked huddle around something in their centre.

“They’re guarding someone,” Raven said, and she winced as a warrior pushed passed her, their mind clearly elsewhere.

“Who?” Bellamy asked as he eyed the few warriors that remained near the gates, each of these with hands on weapons and eyes taking in every single person around them.

“I don’t know,” Raven said.

And so Raven fell into step behind the mass of warriors as they made their way towards the gates, and as she glanced over her shoulder she saw Monty standing aside, a stunned expression on his face, and his hand still holding the rusted piece of tech he had grabbed in the workshop to defend himself with.

But Raven’s attention was pulled back to the warriors who walked ahead, and as she continued to peer into their mass she found herself able to catch glimpses of whoever it was that was wounded.

Both bodies lay on stretchers, both unconscious, bandages bloodied and tightly secured. And as Raven continued to look at the nearest one, she thought the person a child, young, far too youthful to have been a warrior. Or perhaps not, if only because she knew little of just how old grounders were before they saw combat. She even found herself trying to remember how old the children were she had seen during the Mountain’s fall, who she had seen shadowing warriors, both older and far more experienced.

Maybe that was it, Raven thought, maybe this wounded child was an important person’s child, daughter or son, who had been wounded, who had such a high standing within their culture that would warrant such a large mass of warriors to protect.

“It’s a child,” Raven said a little breathlessly as she continued to struggle to keep up.

“A child?” Bellamy grunted out past the rag held to his nose.

“One of the people wounded.”

“They’re going through all this trouble for a child?” and Bellamy sounded incredulous, disbelieving.

“Wouldn’t you, if it was O?” and Raven couldn’t help but to smirk just a slight amount as Bellamy’s lips pursed.

And so, before long, they came to the last bend before the medbay. As Raven turned the corner she came face to face with a sea of grounders. Warriors lined the wide corridor, each one with hands on weapons, each gaze turning to her and Bellamy as they both came to an awkward stop before them.

“Why’s the Commander here?” Bellamy asked, and Raven followed his gaze towards the red sash that she could see through the windows of the medbay doors.

“How am I supposed to know?” Raven challenged, but she didn’t really wait for an answer as she began to move forward, curiosity now taking hold.

More warriors filled the interior of the medbay, too, each one standing by every single door in and out of one of the largest rooms in the Ark. Some even shadowed every nurse and medical assistant who moved about too. But most of the warriors surrounding the two beds that were now occupied by the two wounded grounders.

Raven took a moment to take in the second person, who, from the angle, she could only really tell was severely wounded from the bandaged that wrapped one wrist tightly, and to those that wrapped around their torso.

But Raven’s attention was pulled back to the child, and she couldn’t help but to gasp as she saw the arrow that protruded from the child’s throat, whose face was covered in bruises and cuts and gashes, whose body seemed to have been beaten so severely that any bit of flesh that wasn’t covered by bandaged showed signs of violence, of pain and suffering.

“Jesus,” Raven whispered as she came to a stop at the medbay doors, eyes taking in the scene.

“They weren’t kidding,” Bellamy said, and she looked at him to find his gaze had softened only a little, though that fire she had seen at the gates still lingered.

“Yeah,” and Raven’s attention was pulled to the older woman who knelt by the bed, whose brown hair, fiercely braided had streaks of grey, and whose hand rested atop the child’s chest.

And perhaps it was odd, for Raven found herself taking in that woman, in the familiarity of her face. As she eyed the child, Raven realised it was a girl, and though she could make out little of her features, from the brown of her hair, and the same braids that spun through it, she was sure the girl was daughter, and the woman mother. But what really gave her pause was the Commander who stood behind the mother.

And as Raven took in the tightness of the Commander’s jaw, in the tension she saw in her posture, and the way she looked from mother to daughter, and then to the second wounded person, Raven found the realisation of just who she had let inside Arkadia beginning to dawn on her.

“Shit.”


	17. Chapter 17

Abby was tired, or perhaps not quite tired. But fatigued. Exhausted. She hadn’t had what felt like one good night’s sleep in longer than she could remember, she didn’t think she had had one since before the Ark had come down to the ground. Perhaps her last true good night’s sleep was before things had fallen apart, before Jake had told her of the fault with the oxygen.

She leant her forehead against the coolness of the shelving bracket. The metal seemed to thrum with the barely there remnants of the Ark’s power that still flowed through its walls. And it was moments like this, moments when no one was near that she would steal just a minute of sleep, just a minute of rest, just a fraction of a moment to let her eyes close and her mind clear as much as it could.

And then she shook her head and opened her eyes to find herself standing in the store room, tablet in hand, icon blinking gently in the upper right corner in reminder that it needed to be charged sometime soon.

The shelves in front of Abby stocked what little was left of their medicine supplies. Antibiotics, containers with pills for all sorts of illness, some not worried bout in years, others a constant battle to contain before it spread to more people on the Ark. It saddened her that they needed to ration the last of their medicine, even now that they had come to the ground.

But she hoped and believed that one day soon their rationing would end, simply because teams had been dedicated to cataloguing plant life, deciphering how to make new medicines, and to learn what they could from the sparse contact that they had had with the grounder healers, and from the little communication they continued to have with the grounder scouts.

However, despite the realities of their predicament, despite how low all their supplies were, one shelf in the storeroom brought a smile to her lips. As Abby took in the almost full shelf she couldn’t help but to feel an ache in her chest, she couldn’t help but to think of a future that wasn’t so bleak.

On the Ark, starting a family and raising a child was a strictly documented process, couples would pair off, some would even be refused a family license based on a higher than average genetic incompatibility, whilst others were forced together before finding someone they truly cared for.

And all that was done for the simple fact that they had believed themselves the last of the human race. And with that came restrictions, came requests of disabling their hormone inhibitors for one night at a time, each interaction carefully monitored by the medical staff.

Even then they needed to be careful, for supplies had always been low, had always been kept in a careful balance between not enough and too much, where even the slightest excess, or the barest hints of low supplies could upset the balance that had survived on the Ark for generation.

But now? On the ground?

Things had changed. At least when it came to starting families.

And so Abby smiled as she took in the shelf that was almost completely full of contraceptive implants ready at a moment’s notice to replace a faulty implant, of pills and vials of liquid to be used if anyone was found to be carrying more than one child at a time, or of anyone found to be with undocumented child and unborn child.

Perhaps that was one thing Abby could be grateful for. That families could start on their own terms, could decide for themselves what was best.

And it was times like this that her mind turned to her own family, to the one she felt wholly responsible for tearing apart. She hadn’t given up hope, not yet, that Clarke was lost forever. She wouldn’t give up, not until Clarke’s body was found or proof was shown. But even then, Abby didn’t know if she would refuse to accept, would refuse to live with how her actions had in part led to Clarke’s disappearance.

And Abby was sure, Abby was certain, she felt it in her very core that Clarke had left, had felt like there was no one else to turn to, in part because of her actions, of her role in turning in Jake, that because of her actions on the Ark, Clarke had felt like she couldn’t trust her to be there for her, to be the person for her to break against in her pain.

Or maybe, and this thought terrified Abby even more, that Clarke had thought the wilderness, the harshness of the forest, to be preferable to her presence.

And so Abby let that thought take hold for another too cruel moment.

And then she shook her head, straightened her shoulders and eyed the tablet screen just once to make sure the correct number of supplies had been input.

Abby exited the storeroom to find the lights of the Ark somewhat dimmed, their power at half, in part because of how early in the morning it still was, and in part to conserve energy levels.

She didn’t mind though. And she didn’t for she knew they had made it to the ground, and that the lights weren’t dimmed because it was simply their station’s turn to go with half power for the next month because power had never been enough on the Ark.

Abby passed a group of guards, their brows sweaty as they ran a ring through the Ark’s interior, their routine constant, if only because they had seen what the grounders could do with fist and foot alone. Or perhaps it was simply to stick to the known, to a pattern, to something familiar.

Abby passed a technician kneeling down by an open access panel, the woman’s brows furrow, a small hand light held in her teeth as she tried prying apart a broken piece of machinery that sparked far too much for Abby’s liking.

She passed a child, a crown of flowers in her hair as the mother held her hand a walked her around, perhaps to embrace the calm before most of the Ark woke, or perhaps to share in one last moment before she was sent outside the walls of Arkadia, where the promise of return was never certain.

But she she heard it then. She heard the low piercing horn that echoed out. She felt the rumble in the deck plating beneath her feet. And she knew the grounders had come.

 

* * *

 

Abby walked fast, not fast enough that it was desperate, but fast enough that she moved with purpose. She didn’t know who or why they were being visited now, nor did she know if her services were needed, but she knew it always prudent to be aware, to be prepared.

She began to hear the chattering of voices though, and she could even feel the rumble of feet that moved across the metal deck plating. As she began to follow the sounds she realised that they led to the medbay,

And so it didn’t surprise her that when she turned one last corner, she found the medbay occupied. But what surprised her were the number of warriors that lined the walls.

Each warrior she saw turned their head to face her, those closest already had weapon’s drawn, others had hands reaching for their. Abby couldn’t count how many there were, but as she continued to look them up and down she couldn’t see sign of injury, couldn’t even see sign of wounded. But Abby’s attention was caught by Bellamy and Raven who stood at the medbay doors, both of them looking inwards, their postures curious, guarded and unsure.

“What’s happening?” Abby asked as she came to pause by their side, one hand already reaching out to open the medbay doors.

“They have wounded,” Raven answered.

“And all these people?” Abby asked. “Was their a fight?”

“No,” Raven shook her head. “I don’t think so. Not like you’re thinking,” and she gestured inside. “There’s two wounded,” Raven said. “Jackson’s already in there.”

“Bellamy,” Abby said. “Get Kane and the guard, make sure things don’t get out of control,” and with that Abby took in a deep breath as she stepped inside, prior thoughts of her own sadness slipping away as the role of healer took its place in her mind.

 

* * *

 

“Where is your healer,” Alexandria snarled, hand reaching out for the man’s collar.

“She’s in the store—” he winced as she pulled him closer. “In the storeroom. If you let me go I can get her.”

Perhaps Alexandria should do something more than threaten, but she wasn’t thinking clearly, she didn’t even think she had been thinking clearly since the very first sign of attack days early.

Warriors flooded the outside hall, and she knew none would be able to get through, none would be able to hurt Nessa anymore, and yet she couldn’t find it in herself to relinquish the fury she felt bubbling in her core, couldn’t find it in herself to tame the anger now that she had come to Skaikru for help only to find their healer gone, and this man, this boy, hardly old enough to call himself a trusted member of the clan telling her tha—

A hand came to rest on her wrist, the fingers tight enough to break through her clouded anger, gentle enough to know the person cared.

It took her a moment longer to realise it was Lexa’s hand, that her daughter had moved closer to her than she had been in longer than she could remember. And perhaps that was all it took, all she needed for her mind to clear, for her to realise there were others that existed around her.

“I—” Alexandria bit back whatever she was to say for she knew not what she wished to voice.

“Abby will come, nomon,” Lexa said quietly, and as Alexandria looked in her daughter’s eyes she saw a worry, not obvious, but hidden behind the green. “Do not fear,” and Lexa released her wrist, the calm upon her daughter’s face seemingly at odds with the fierceness of the expression on Dhorma’s face who stood behind her, eyes staring unblinkingly at the man before her.

And so Alexandria took in a deep breath, tried to calm her thoughts, and clear her mind. As she exhales she opened her eyes and turned her attention back to Nessa who lay on the bed. Her daughter’s chest rose slightly, each breath ragged, too shallow and too uneven to bring any calm to her mind. Alexandria did the only thing she felt she could do in the moment, she reached out, let her hand rest atop Nessa’s heart, and she tried to will her heart to stay strong, to beat with the strength it had once done in the early mornings when she would wake far too early, like it had once done as she ran through the forests after the prey she had failed to strike with her arrow, like she had do—

A tear fell onto her wrist, and it took her a moment of bewildered blinking to realise it came from her own eyes. Alexandria didn’t know what to feel, she didn’t even know how to feel. She couldn’t bare the thought of losing Nessa, not after Lexa, not after their father. And she knew it wasn’t fair, she knew she could never blame Lexa’s duty, could never blame the Heda before, but part of her felt like she had lost Lexa long ago. And she felt that way for the first time she had seen Lexa after her ascension had broken her. She remembered the depth in her daughter’s eyes that had never existed before, and she had recognised that her daughter was not quite her daughter anymore, was something more, was _someone_ more.

And now Nessa lay beneath her palm, the life she had barely lived holding on with little strength left.

“I can not lose my daughter,” Alexandria whispered, and she didn’t know who she spoke to or whether she said her words for any other to hear. “I will not,” her head shook, her eyes watered and she felt an emptiness take hold of her heart as Nessa’s chest rose a little too late after the last breath.

The indescribable sound of the door opening pulled her attention from her daughter, and as Alexandria looked up she saw Ryder moving to intercept a woman who began to move inside.

“I’m the healer,” the woman said as she clutched a rectangular object in her hands, one side of it glowing with their tech.

Alexandria took a moment to take the woman in then, and she saw shadows under her eyes, deep bruises that spoke of nights of unrest. She saw a face, sharp and honed from years of experience, of calculation and stress. But perhaps most of all, she saw a familiarity, something that took her only a moment to recognise. And perhaps that little flicker of recognition was enough to ignore the warning in her mind to not let anyone she didn’t know touch Nessa.

“Abby,” Lexa said as she stepped aside, seemed to adjust to the situation a little too calmly for her liking.

“Commander,” Abby said as she passed off the object in her hands to one of the members of Skaikru dressed in white.

“You must heal this girl,” Lexa said, and Alexandria didn’t miss the way Lexa gave no other information.

“I—” but the woman, Abby, paused mid motion as her gaze moved from Nessa and then to Klark who lay unconscious and motionless on the next bed over. “I—” Alexandria saw Abby’s mind fray, saw her mind twist and turn, she even noticed the woman pinch herself painfully and shake her head for only a brief moment before she seemed to shake herself from whatever daze had overcome her.

“Jackson,” Abby said, face turning calm and not unlike the way Alexandria had seen the most skilled warriors become in the midst of battle. “Get me the level two trauma kit,” Abby’s gaze moved back to Nessa as she moved to her side, hands in her pocket as she leant forward and seemed to inspect her. “When did this happen?”

“Almost four days ago,” Lexa answered.

“Have you tried to remove the arrow since?”

“No,” Alexandria said as she stepped closer, hand still atop Nessa’s chest, the other reaching for her daughter’s closest hand that felt too cold, too clammy, too warm to the touch.

“Good,” Abby said as she took a step back and turned to eye Klark on the other bed.

“What happened?” Abby asked.

“They fell down a cliff,” Lexa said, her voice a little too cold and distracted.

“Have either of them coughed up blood?” Abby asked.

“Klark has,” Lexa continued. “Nessa as well. We do not know if it is from the arrow.”

“Ok,” Abby said as she turned back to Nessa, hands free from her pockets as she reached for metal handles that ran the length of the bed. “Jackson,” Abby called out, and as Alexandria turned she found the man she had grasped by the collar on the other side of the room, hands gloved in a thin blue fabric, and a tray of instruments and other things she couldn’t recognise laying atop a cart being wheeled towards them. “Stabilise Klark,” Abby said, the name sounding a little odd to her ears. “I’m prepping the girl for surgery.”


	18. Chapter 18

Abby was tired. Her hands had started to cramp hours ago, but she ignored the pain, she ignored the fatigue pulling at the corners of her mind as she finished the last of the sutures.

Blood stained bandages lay on a small cart beside her, the smell of antiseptic lingered in the air and made her nose itch just a little. A quiet beep echoed out around her, too, the sound shallow, soft, too soft for her liking, but it came repeated and constant. The girl, Nessa she had been told, was lucky. Luckier than she could ever imagine.

X-rays had been the only thing that helped her see what she was doing, but even then it hadn’t been enough. The operation had been more guesswork than she would have liked, and when she had reached for the tablet, had searched for the neck and throat’s anatomy, she had tried to keep her motions simple, tried to make it seem like it was commonplace for her to follow diagrams and instructions in real time.

And through it all she had felt the Commander’s eyes on her, had felt the mother’s gaze piercing into her, even the warrior, the guard, whoever the man with the greying beard was, had given far less space then she would have liked, especially when she approached Nessa with sharp scalpel in hand.

But that was over.

And now so was Clarke’s operation.

Abby hadn’t had time to think, hadn’t really had time to process the shock, the happiness, the relief and the anguish and distraught she had felt when she first saw Clarke, when she first recognised that it was her daughter lying on the other bed, body battered and bruised and shattered, wrist broken and rudimentarily set.

It was even harder to put aside her emotions when she had cut into Clarke’s side when she realised how badly broken her daughter’s ribs had been, how one had punctured her lung, its presence, by some miracle, the only thing stopping it from collapsing completely.

And so, as Abby took one moment to inspect her work, to double and triple check everything she had done, she found it at least as satisfactory as could be expected.

She took a step back and looked away from Clarke, if only because she didn’t like seeing her daughter lying on the table with the chest tube that snaked its way down her side from where it protruded from between her ribs. She didn’t like the stitching that ran the length of her ribs that was sure to leave a visible scar no matter how much she cared for it.

“Get some rest, Abby,” she started as she felt Jackson’s hand rest upon her shoulder.

“I’m ok,” Abby said with a slow shake of her head.

“No, you’re not,” Jackson said as he reached down, took her by the elbow gently and began to pull her away.

“You were here, too,” Abby said as Jackson continued to lead her to her office. “You should get some rest, too.”

“No,” he shook his head. “I had only just started my shift, you were at the end of yours,” and Abby felt him squeeze a little more firmly, his lips tight as he smiled at her.

“Are y—”

“I’m sure,” Jackson said. “Get cleaned up,” he continued. “You can sit with Clarke if you want, but try to get some rest. I’ll handle everything.”

And with that Abby found herself slowly slipping out of the role of doctor and surgeon, and into something far less calm. She looked over her shoulder and at Clarke who continued to lay motionless on the bed as Jackson moved towards it, she looked past Clarke and to Nessa, to the girl’s mother who sat in a chair beside her daughter. She even took a moment to eye the Commander who stood between both beds, one hand on the knife on her hip, the other clenched in a tight fist by her side. Abby took in the scene, and she could be forgiven for thinking that it seemed as though the Commander couldn’t decide who to approach.

But Abby shook her thoughts as she ducked into her office to change out of the now bloodied clothes she wore.

 

* * *

 

Alexandria didn’t think she could ever forget the image of Nessa’s throat being opened ever so carefully with the small knife held in healer’s hand. She didn’t think she would ever forget the grimace, however unconscious Nessa had been, as the pain must have reached her sleeping mind. And Alexandria knew she would never forget the blood that had pooled out, she would never forget the way the arrow had been wriggled ever so carefully free, with pauses more often than she would like as the healer inspected the object that glowed, she would never forget the creases that formed between the healer’s eyes at times as she seemed to double check whatever it was that the tech told her.

But most of all, Alexandria would never forget that the healer had saved her daughter’s life.

She took in a heavy breath, the tension that still lingered in her body far too ingrained now to be relieved any time soon. She watched as the second, the man called Jackson, led the healer away with hushed words, and she watched as she disappeared behind a door at the other end of the room.

“She is Klark’s nomon,” Alexandria said quietly, and she looked up at Lexa who remained standing.

“Yes,” Lexa responded with a slight pause to look Klark’s way. “She is their healer and at times their leader.”

Alexandria looked to the doors then, perhaps to double check and to reassure herself that they were safe, that whoever had attacked them were no threat. And she felt relief to see the warriors Lexa travelled with still remained clustered outside, had intercepted all that had approached. But she also saw more Skaikru, these ones in darker black clothes with armour of sorts woven into the fabric.

“Sit,” Alexandria said eventually as she turned her attention back to Klark, only to grimace at the strange piece of tech that protruded from her side.

“I will stand.”

“You will sit,” and Alexandria let her voice harden as much as she dared lest she disrupt Nessa’s slumber.

And she met Lexa’s gaze to find the barest hints of uncertainty colouring her vision before whatever influence she had as mother managed to overcome her. Lexa looked around for a moment in search of a chair before Dhorma pushed one her way, the man having never moved from Nessa’s side.

“You too, Dhorma,” Alexandria said. “You are tir—”

“I will continue to stand, Alexandria,” Dhorma said, and from the way his shoulders squared, she knew he would not move. She even took a moment to look at Ryder only to find him standing resolutely by the entrance, eyes tracking the healer’s second who moved about the space gathering the instruments used.

Alexandria sighed, and as she did she felt the tension slowly beginning to ebb a little more freely. She didn’t know why it was, maybe it was in part because healer’s second was moving about without seemingly being concerned for Nessa or Klark’s wellbeing. But whatever it was, Alexandria felt herself calming.

She looked back across the room to find the door Abby had disappeared behind still closed, and as she continued to eye it, she couldn’t help but to feel a twisting in her stomach. She wasn’t sure why, she wasn’t sure how, but a thought came to her, something uncertain, something perhaps a little foreign, something that part of her screamed not to do.

But she looked back to Nessa, made sure she memorised her daughter’s face, made sure she memorised the feel of her heart beating underneath the hand she had hardly let leave over her heart.

“I will be back,” Alexandria said as she took a moment to look at Klark.

And so she came to her feet, her body protesting the movements as she nodded to Lexa who seemed halfway ready to follow only to settle back into the chair and continue to look from Klark to Nessa.

Alexandria came to the door then, and as she eyed it, she found herself unsure of how to open it, of how to knock, where she should let her knuckles rasp against it.

But perhaps she could try the centre.

She let her knuckles knock against the cold metal a brief couple times, the sound perhaps too loud in the quiet of the healer’s room. Alexandria heard the faintest sounds of something moving from the behind the door. But before she could even try to identify what those sounds were, the door opened with that same indescribable sound.

Abby stood at the door, her clothes changed, blood free. Shadows still lingered beneath her eyes, and if Alexandria looked a little harder she could see a wetness that lingered upon her cheeks.

“I wish to talk,” Alexandria wasn’t sure what else to say. “May we talk?”

“Yes,” Abby said, glance just briefly looking past her and to where Nessa and Klark lay. “Of course. Come in,” Abby said as she stepped aside, hand gesturing for her to enter.

The smaller room was disorganised, a number of those same glowing objects lay across a table with a larger one attached to a stand in its centre. What looked like a half eaten meal was pushed aside, half discarded, perhaps forgotten about. A couch dominated one wall, and a small, low table sat in front of it, that too, was covered in those objects and a large map that Alexandria recognised must have come from Ton DC.

“Sorry about the mess,” Abby said as she began to scoop things into her arms in a slow haphazard manner.

“I do not mind,” Alexandria said with a shrug. “My home is destroyed.”

That gave Abby pause for a moment, and as Alexandria looked at the other woman, she was sure she still moved on autopilot, still seemed to be running on instinct without having considered or thought more of anything other than to take one moment as it came.

“Sit,” Abby said as she piled the things in her arm onto her desk.

And so Alexandria sat at one end of the couch, one hand quick to adjust the knife strapped to her thigh into a more comfortable place.

“I’ve been told I should get one of those,” Abby said, and Alexandria found her looking at her knife.

“Yes,” Alexandria said. “It has kept me alive.”

Abby sat on the other end of the couch, body turned to face her, hands clutched in her lap.

“I’m sure it has,” Abby said awkwardly, gaze, Alexandria was sure, had settled on the blood of those she had killed only a few days ago that still lingered on the handle and had stained the leather an even darker shade.

“Thank you,” Alexandria said, and she made sure she looked Abby in the eyes. “For healing my daughter.”

“It was my job,” Abby said, her voice just a little detached sounding to Alexandria. “What happened?”

Alexandria took a moment to consider what she knew of Klark and now her mother, and she wondered what questions Abby was sure to have, she even wondered if Abby wanted to simply have her leave, to sit beside Klark and ignore all others for as long as she could. And perhaps it was selfish to have assumed, to have not thought of more than herself in the moment.

And so, “come,” Alexandria said as she stood. “You wish to be with your daughter.”

Abby seemed startled, seemed surprised at mention of Klark, and just for a moment Alexandria found herself wondering if Abby’s fatigue now played games with the woman, with her memory. But she shook that thought as she moved for the door only to come to a stop as she eyed its foreignness, and her inability to decipher how it opens.

“Here,” Abby said as she reached for a small section of the wall beside it.

The door slid open with that same odd sound to reveal the medbay just a little cleaner than before, the Abby’s second clearly having cleaned up more in the short time since she had been in the room.

Lexa’s head snapped around to their presence, and Alexandria saw the same tightness in her daughter’s body, in the way her movements seemed a little jerky. Alexandria still wanted to ask questions though, still wanted, for some reason, to talk with Abby, and so she let her eyes settle on Lexa, let her instincts honed over years change her gaze so that it seemed more commanding, more reproachful, less open to rebuttal and challenge.

And she watched as Lexa’s gaze moved from Abby to her before pausing for a moment as she took in her expression. And perhaps at any other time it would have been just a little funny. But it wasn’t, and could never be at times like this.

Lexa stood, took one last moment to look from Nessa to Klark before meeting Abby’s gaze.

“I must speak with Kane,” Lexa said. “I thank you, Abby Kom Skaikru.”

And so Lexa rose and headed for the exit, Ryder quick to fall into step beside her. Alexandria then found herself alone with Abby and Dhorma who continued to stand by Nessa’s bed, Abby’s second having slipped away, she assumed, sometime recently.

Abby looked around them for a moment before reaching for the chair Lexa had vacated and then she fell into it with a heaviness that Alexandria knew all too well.

Abby’s hands came to cradle her head as she took in a deep breath, and for a moment Alexandria saw not the healer who had dismissed her own emotions, who had entered a state of mind honed by years of training, but a woman, tired and afraid, a mother, broken hearted and desperate for reprieve from a world that must have wronged her in so many ways she couldn’t discern.

“What happened?” Abby asked as she sat up, hand quick to wipe across her eyes as her gaze settled on Klark in the bed beside her. “What happened?”

“We were attacked,” Alexandria answered as she looked to Nessa, as she let her hand come to rest atop her slowly rising chest.

“By who?”

“Warriors from another clan,” Alexandria said, and she knew which clan, she knew who was responsible, but for now, placing blame without evidence would have to wait.

“Why?” Abby asked, her voice quiet and uncertain.

Alexandria paused for a moment, if only because she knew not if Abby had realised her connection to Lexa. And so instead, she settled on telling a half truth.

“There are some that think Klark has power over death,” she watched as Abby’s eyes closed, as her breath broke.

“Where’d you find her?” Abby asked once her eyes opened.

“Near my home,” Alexandria answered. “She had wandered deep into Trikru territory,” she need not ask if Abby had searched for her daughter, she need not ask if Abby had hoped and prayed and feared for her daughter’s wellbeing. She could see the answer in the shadows under her eyes, and from the way her gaze always seemed to look back to Klark.

“How long was she alone? In the wild?” Abby asked.

“She has been with my family for little more than two months,” Alexandria said as she tried counting back the days.

At that she saw Abby’s eyes close, she saw her think, count and estimate, and as her eyes opened again Alexandria saw tears welling anew.

“Thank you,” Abby said quietly. “Thank you for giving her a home. Thank you for keeping her safe,” she saw Abby curse herself just a little at the last of her words.

“My daughter cares for her deeply,” Alexandria said in answer. “She would be have been very upset if I sent Klark away.”

“I’ll have to thank her when she wakes up,” Abby said with a sad smile as her gaze fell to Nessa. “She’s a lucky girl,” and Abby tried to stifle a yawn. “Very lucky.”

And from the way Abby’s gaze met hers, she could understand just how close Nessa must have come to never waking, to never being able to see Polis or the great lakes, to have been old enough to rise her own horse without supervision. Or two have even hunted on her own.

“Thank you,” Alexandria said, and she reached out, let her hand close around Abby’s and she squeezed. “Klark saved her life,” Alexandria continued. “She fought as hard as she could,” and though Alexandria hadn’t seen it in person, hadn’t seen Klark fight at all, she knew from the destruction in Nessa’s room, from some of the wounds on Klark’s body, that she must have fought as hard as she could.

Abby’s eyes closed once again, and with that a tear fell free, its path lonely and fractured as it wandered down her cheek.

“I wish this never happened,” Abby said, and this time Alexandria heard the quiver in her voice. “I wish Klark never had to do any of this.”

Alexandria waited until Abby’s eyes open again, she waited until they shared a look before continuing, “I do not think it is in Klark’s nature to do nothing if there is something she can do.”

“No,” and Abby smiled a small smile. “It isn’t.”

Abby yawned again, and even Alexandria found herself feeling the fatigue of the day beginning to wear more heavily upon her. But she watched as Abby looked out the medbay and to the warriors that still lined the hall, each one seemingly on edge and ready for violence.

“Your daughter must be important,” Abby said as she looked back to Nessa, a question in her eyes.

“Yes,” Alexandria said, mind thinking for only a moment. “She is the Commander’s sister.”


	19. Chapter 19

Clarke dreamt she was frozen, she dreamt herself stuck in place, unable to move, unable to flee or run. Her body ached and her mind was too dull to think, to comprehend or to understand. She thought she should remember where she was, she thought she should remember what had happened and why she felt the way she did. But she couldn’t for some reason.

A cold breeze was too warm around her, it made her flesh prickle and her body recoil. No matter how much she tried, she found herself unable to escape the chill, unable to move away from the heat.

It annoyed her, made her want to lash out at whatever it was that made her feel this way. But she couldn’t. For some reason her limbs wished not to listen to her, wished not to let her mind tell them what to do.

She heard it. Not quite so consciously at first, but as she continued to dream, as she continued to struggle, she thought something in the back of her mind made itself known.

A beep echoed out in her mind, the sound low, too shrill, too soothing, too familiar. Another beep, careful, timid, cautious and constant. The sound brought back memories, it brought back nightmares and dreams. Even the breeze that seemed not to ghost across her skin seemed too familiar to her tired mind.

And then her eyes opened.

Clarke’s eyes opened to a darkness. Shadows shifted and twisted around her, some long, cast by things out of her sight. Some shadows seemed rooted in place, unwilling to move even an inch. Her eyes settled on a light overhead but her vision was too blurred for her to recognise it as anything but a patch of illumination that seemed to flicker and dance and pierce into the darkness around her.

Clarke grimaced as she blinked. Her eyelids seemed heavier than they had felt in years. She turned her head to the left and as she did so her vision began to clear and bring her world into focus. Rows of beds sat alongside wherever she now found herself. All of them emptied. It took her a moment to register that these beds weren’t made of wood, of leathers and furs, but of metal, of synthetics and polymers that had once been all she had known. As Clarke’s gaze continued to move along the row of beds, she found each one with a monitor attached to a stand, their screens blackened save for the occasional blinking of a light as they let their state of standby be known.

Clarke swallowed for she thought it must be a dream, she swallowed and she felt her face pull into something full of pain as she felt how raw her throat was, how dry, how unused it seemed. But she turned her head to her right this time and she found more rows of beds stretching out before her. But her gaze settled first on a figure in the distance who stood by a wall, his features oddly familiar, from the tattoo that cascaded down his face, to the beard and the braids and the way his hand never left a sword strapped to his hip.

Clarke blinked once more, the motion a little muted, but then she found herself able to put a name to the face she saw, and perhaps she thought herself dreaming, if only because she was certain it must be a dream if she was to ever see Ryder standing in what had once been a place she visited countless times as a child.

But then Clarke’s vision settled on the bed closest to her. On it lay a figure, this one far smaller than Ryder, whose body was covered in a thin sheet she recognised, whose only exposed body was a head and neck partially bandaged so thickly she thought it more brace than dressing. It took her a moment longer to recognise the figure was a girl, and it took her just one second further to realise that girl had a name.

And then she remembered.

Clarke remembered fishing, she remembered the horns, she remembered Dhorma who had crashed through the forest, who had told Jaxta to take her and Nessa back home. She remembered Jaxta pushing them into Nessa’s room before breaking the doorknob free. And she remembered the violence, the angers and the sadness and heartbreak when she saw Jaxta’s body. She remembered fleeing, Nessa in hand. And there were those that had hunted, that had followed, attacked and tried to kill or maim. And then Clarke remembered the fall, the arrow, the pain and the fear.

“Nes—” Clarke’s voice broke before sound even fully formed in her mouth. She didn’t think it must have sounded anything more than a whimper, a choked and broken breath.

But her vision caught movement, and as she tried to move, tried to twist just a little she felt pain sear up the side of her torso, that seemed to bury deep into her core. And so she stopped, she stilled her motions and she whimpered and spluttered past the dryness in her throat.

“Clarke,” she heard her name called from somewhere around her.

It took her a moment of searching before her gaze settled on a figure who sat by her side, and it took her a moment longer before she recognised who it was. Clarke didn’t know what to think about the realisation that she was back in Arkadia far sooner than she had ever anticipated. She didn’t know what to think of the fact that she had returned in a state she had never wished to be in. But she remembered waking what seemed like days ago now, in a tent. She remembered Lexa telling her things that her fuddled mind couldn’t quite recall, and yet she found herself too fatigued to let any of her emotions do more than to simply accept. At least for now.

And so Clarke took her mother in, and Abby seemed tired, more tired than Clarke had ever seen her before. Shadows smudged under her eyes, and her hair was pulled back out of her eyes. But Clarke could see how dishevelled it was, she could even tell her mother hadn’t washed it in perhaps days.

“M—” Clarke couldn’t even finish the word before her voice seemed to crack.

“Don’t try to talk,” Abby whispered as she moved closer in her chair.

“Wha—” Clarke paused, closed her eyes and tried to fight the aches in her body before she continued. “What happened?”

“You’ve been in surgery,” Abby whispered as she reached out and took hold of her hand. “You were asleep for a while—”

“How long?” Clarke asked, her gaze moving from her mother’s face and then back to Nessa’s unconscious form.

“Almost two days,” Abby said as she looked over to Nessa, too. “She’s going to be ok,” she continued. “Her recovery will be long, but her surgery went as well as could be expected,” and as Abby finished, Clarke found herself looking around herself once more.

Her gaze settled on Alexandria who sat in her own chair beside Nessa, one hand resting atop the girl’s chest as her head tilted down just a little in sleep.

“She hasn’t left Nessa’s side since she got here,” Abby said quietly. “Even the guards,” and as Abby gestured around them, Clarke found herself able to sense the eyes that were on her. “I don’t think they’re allowed to leave.”

“I—” but Clarke wasn’t sure what to say, she wasn’t even sure she knew what to think of the situation she had stumbled into.

As she continued to hold her mother’s gaze, Clarke could tell there were things that needed to be said, that needed to be explained. But perhaps, in that moment, Clarke found herself feeling like a young child once more, when all she had wanted was her mother’s embrace after scraping her knee, or had wanted someone to check under her bed for a monster, a demon, something that would fill her night with terrors.

And so Clarke broke. She broke and she felt the tears beginning to well, she felt the pain push the fatigue aside, and she felt her lips tremble and her vision cloud as whatever emotions she had bottled up inside began to spring free without warning and without care for the pain that wracked her body.

But maybe that was what she needed.

At least in that very moment.

 

* * *

 

Lexa stood outside the walls of Arkadia. Her fist was clenched tightly around the knife strapped to her hip and she felt the tension in her body increasing with each passing second. It wasn’t often that she felt this uncertain, it wasn’t often that she second guessed herself or warred with whatever decisions she had made. At least not to violently as she now did.

She had asked herself over and over again how this had happened. She had wondered if someone had betrayed her, she had wondered if she had been careless, had let slip her family’s whereabouts in some way. But if she was honest, if she was truthful, she knew the answer was simply that she had become weak.

She had become weak and had allowed that to rule her actions for too long. She knew her movements were watched by all clans, those friendly to her and those more willing to displace her. And because of that she had avoided visiting Nessa and her nomon more than was required. Sometimes she would go almost a year without seeing her sister, without hearing of her achievements. And it had hurt her every time to see Nessa had grown more than she could ever anticipate. And that was simply a cruel reminder of her absence in her sister’s life. She even ignored the joy she would see, the hope that perhaps one day she would stay forever, for longer than a day, for longer than a few short hours. She would even ignore the way Nessa’s gaze would move past her and into the trees in the hopes that others had come, had travelled with her for the day when Nessa would be allowed to see the clans, to see Polis. And Lexa had told herself that it was for Nessa’s protection. That only seeing her when she did was to avoid a pattern being recognised, was to avoid danger befalling what was left of her family.

And it was the truth.

And so was the truth that she was now responsible for her sister’s near death, so was the truth that she was responsible for Klark’s injuries.

She knew her prolonged stay in the forests near Nessa had led those warriors to her. She knew her absence from her duties, though explained away as _training_ for her warriors, was the pattern that was needed for her world to collapse.

She shook her head, tried to settle her thoughts for she knew trying to plan fuelled by emotion to be folly.

Lexa took in a deep breath, she held it until her lungs cried out in desperation, and she held it until she felt her body on the cusp of shaking, and then she released it in one steady exhale.

Her gaze moved across the clearing between Arkadia and the forest’s edge and she watched as warriors rode out from it, a hunting party, she could tell, by the animals that were tied to their horses. She turned her gaze to warriors who trained in the near distance, their weapon’s clinging out in the calm of the darkening sky, and she watched as others, those on guard duty continued to move through the trees, their presence she felt and sensed rather than saw with her own eyes.

But try as she might, Lexa couldn’t shake the realisation that all of Clarke’s anguishes had been her doing, try as she might, Lexa knew all of Nessa’s suffering was due to her actions. And it hurt, it made her see red, and made her resent the weakness that bubbled somewhere in the deepest depths of her core.

She would need discuss her next move with Titus, she would need to return to Polis soon, she would need to face Azgeda in time. But for now, for now she would be patient, she would ensure no more harm would come to Klark and to Nessa. If only because she thought that the least she could do.

“Heda,” Lexa turned her head to gaze at the woman who approached.

“Yes?” she asked the warrior, head clean shaven save for three neatly trimmed strips running from her forehead down to the back of her head.

“Message comes from Polis,” the warrior said with a quick bowing of her head. “Titus wishes to know how long you are to remain at Arkadia,” she finishes as she straightens.

Lexa couldn’t help but to feel her eyes narrow, partly because she felt a frustration beginning to build, and partly because she simply wished to drive her sword as deep into the heart of the woman who had sent those warriors to kill those she cared for.

“Tell Titus that I will remain at Arkadia until I see fit to leave,” she began. “He will be able to deal with the ambassadors until I return,” Lexa paused for a moment’s thought. “Also send word to Tobias that I want him and his rangers to patrol the forests between Arkadia and the Azgeda border. They have my permission to capture and if necessary kill any foreign warriors they come across who do not have reason to be here, or who refuse to cooperate.”

“Understood, Heda,” the woman said as she nodded before turning to leave.

Lexa looked over her shoulder and back to Arkadia, and as she took in its hulking mass, she couldn’t help but to wonder if one day it would seem less daunting, less like the monstrosity it appeared. Maybe, if her plans came to fruition, banners signally Skaikru’s place in the Coalition would fly from the spires that twisted up into the sky. Perhaps more dwellings would be constructed of wood that would look just like any dwelling in any of the villages throughout Trikru’s land. But until the time was right, Lexa would keep watch, would keep her warriors close, if only to ensure violence could be easily contained.

She sighed, the motion perhaps only visible to those who would have been closest to her, but she felt the tension slowly easing, if only because she thought her mind beginning to settle, at least somewhat.

Lexa began to move back through the gates of Arkadia and past a number of warriors sitting around a fire. She felt two warriors fall into step behind her, both men large and fearsome as they shadowed her movements.

As she moved deeper and deeper into Arkadia and towards the main structure, she found her warriors slowly being replaced by members of Skaikru. Some looked to her with hostility, distrust and anger. Others seemed more intrigued, curious but cautious. It didn’t slip past her, too, that she saw no sign of Lincoln, who she knows must be near, must have made himself scarce lest he cross paths with any of her warriors who would happily gut him for his betrayal at the Mountain.

She paused for a moment as a group of Skaikru shuffled past her, and then she stepped into Arkadia’s interior, the light and the breeze that permeated through its depths oddly artificial. She began to retrace the steps she took, her memory painting a path forwards. She passed more Skaikru, and at times some of her warriors, who she knew to be rotating shifts so that those protecting Nessa and Klark were as well rested as possible.

And so, before long, Lexa turned one last corner before she came to the hallway with the healer’s room at the other end. Her warriors still lined the walls, each one’s head turning in her direction. As she began walking forwards she saw movement through the doors, of a few people moving back and forth. Before long she found herself stepping through the doors, eyes quick to adjust to the slightly dimmed lights of the room.

Her gaze first settled on Abby who moved about at the far end as she sorted through trays quietly, her mind clearly occupied. She took a moment to eye the red that rimmed the older woman’s eyes, and she couldn’t help but to feel just the slightest hints of sympathy for the woman who so clearly seemed far more tired than she accepted.

As Lexa took a step further inside she found herself looking at her mother, whose knees were tucked up to her chest as she sat haphazardly in the chair. Her head tilted to the side ever so slightly in sleep, and her one hand now held Nessa’s hand with a tenderness Lexa thought foreign to herself.

Lexa wasn’t so sure what to make of the sight before her, she wasn’t even so sure she had words to describe what she saw. She was no fool, she knew what she looked like, and she knew what Nessa looked like, too. And she understood just how similar they were, mother and daughters, from the way their hair wove itself into locks both mighty and fierce, in the way their eyes seemed to be tinged with a green that shifted to the sunlight just differently enough that it could be mistaken for a simple trick of the mind. And as Lexa looked at Nessa’s face, past the bruises and wounds, she knew she recognised the face of a girl she once saw in the mirror.

And perhaps that hurt.

Lexa took in the way Alexandria held Nessa’s hand, she took in the way her body leant, perhaps subconsciously, into the sleeping girl, and the way she had held Nessa so tenderly at the foot of the ravine. And Lexa felt something that could be described as sadness.

And she thought it a sadness for she couldn’t quite remember what it was like to feel her mother’s embrace, couldn’t quite remember what it felt like to hold her mother’s hand. She couldn’t even remember what her mother’s voice sounded like as she sung a lullaby as she drifted off to sleep.

“Lexa,” she heard her voice called out softly, but she thought the name a taunting whisper. “Lexa,” she blinked just once to clear whatever emotion had been taking hold of her vision, and as she turned to the voice she found herself staring back at blue eyes that had seen too much violence than had ever wished to see.


	20. Chapter 20

Clarke’s eyes opened to the dimmed lights of the Ark’s medbay. She couldn’t say that she felt rested, she didn’t think she had even really slept. Her body still ached and her mind seemed too dulled and slow to think properly. Around her she heard the footsteps of those who moved about, their motions quiet and careful. Hushed whisper could be heard too, but Clarke couldn’t find it in herself to focus on the sound for more than a few short seconds.

She found herself lying on the hospital bed she had first woken in. Her ribs ached and as she lifted her head only enough to peer down her torso she couldn’t help but to grimace at the small tube that was embedded into her side. Her injured wrist, surely broken, was strapped down and immobilised by her side, the cast around it neatly wrapped and clean. And the white of the clothes she wore, the white of the cast all seemed to contrast so very starkly with the colour of her skin, with the bruises that covered any part of her body she could spy.

Clarke heard the door to the medbay open with a quiet hiss, and so she let her gaze find the sound. Lexa stood at the medbay’s entrance, the woman’s posture stiff, robotic and uncomfortable. Lexa’s gaze was directed to the bed beside Clarke’s and as she turned her head just a little she found herself staring at Nessa’s still unconscious body, her chest rising slowly, and Alexandria in a chair beside the young girl. It took Clarke longer than she liked to put the pieces back together, but as they fell into place she found herself feeling an emotion she couldn’t place. She knew not if it was sadness, if it was anger, hope, happiness that they had all survived, or if it was guilt, guilt for whatever part she played in the attack, guilt at the suffering of those she had visited, of the death of Jaxta who she had known for only long enough to begin to care for the woman in her own right.

But perhaps above all, as Clarke turned her attention to Lexa, she thought she saw all those same emotions colouring the greyed green that stared at sleeping mother and daughter.

“Lexa,” Clarke called out quietly, partly because she wished not to wake Nessa and Alexandria, and partly because her throat felt far too raw to do much more than whisper. But Lexa seemed not to hear or, or had perhaps simply dismissed her voice as that of a ghost, and so Clarke found herself calling out Lexa’s name once more, this time just a little more sure.

At that Lexa seemed to respond and react, and Clarke watched as she let her gaze move from Alexandria and Nessa and then to her. Lexa’s gaze seemed unfocused, seemed distant, but only for a moment.

“Klark,” Lexa said, her voice quiet enough not to disturb those who slept, and those who moved about quietly.

She wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted to say then, she couldn’t even quite gauge how just she had been in Arkadia, had been kept in what could only be described as isolation under the guard of far too many warriors for her to count.

“How long?” Clarke asked, and she tried to ignore the scratchiness in her throat.

“Only a day since you last woke,” Lexa answered as she took a cautious step forward before coming up short, the space she occupied between both beds somewhere between awkwardly close and cautiously distant.

“Has Nessa—” Clarke paused as she swallowed. “Has she woken?”

“Not yet,” Lexa answered as she seemed to look around her for a moment.

Clarke heard the approach of feet, and as she peered out the corner of her eye she saw her mother walking towards them both, each step she took light and perhaps just a little unsure. The expression on her mother’s face was one Clarke had seen any times before, and so it didn’t surprise Clarke to hear what her mother next said.

“Clarke needs rest,” Abby’s voice came out calm, just tinged with the slightest hints of fatigue. “You can stay, but don’t push her,” and as Clarke looked from Lexa to her mother, she thought an unspoken understanding must have transpired.

Lexa nodded just once, the motion simple, yet it seemed to convey more than it should. Abby seemed to take another moment to consider something, and in that time Clarke found herself looking her mother in the eyes, and as she did so she thought things uncertain between them both, too, she thought things awkward, frayed, perhaps even broken.

But Abby seemed to understand, at least in some way, that whatever needed to be said, whatever was wished to be said, could wait until they were both more rested, until they were both of clear mind. And so she smiled tightly, seemed to fight with her want to reach forward, to take a step closer and embrace the daughter Clarke didn’t feel she was anymore.

Lexa seemed to wait until Abby had retreated back to the far end of the medbay, always within eyesight, but far enough that Clarke could at least pretend they were alone. And so, perhaps for the first time in a very long time Clarke let herself really take in Lexa.

And she saw the tension in the woman’s posture, she saw the dark smudges under her eyes that spoke of sleep longed for, and, perhaps for just a moment, as Lexa seemed to shift ever so slightly in stance, Clarke was sure she could see the barest beginnings of a dulled hair that seemed to curl its way from her temple and into the wilds of her braids.

“You’re going grey,” Clarke said, and she didn’t know why she said what she said, she didn’t know if Lexa even knew what that meant, or if she had insulted, had demeaned or simply made a fool of herself for admitting that she had looked hard enough to notice.

And yet, as Clarke continued to look at the way Lexa reacted, she thought, if only bitterly, that Lexa did not mind.

“I do not often have the luxury of rest, Klark,” and it came out simple, to be expected.

“Sit,” and perhaps whatever questions and answers and explanations were to be had could have been had in private, in Lexa’s tent away from curious ears, but she knew she wouldn’t be allowed to move anytime soon.

Lexa seemed to judge whether to listen, whether to remain standing in some odd display of power, of control, but as Clarke let her own eyes drill into Lexa, she found the woman submitting, if only a little in the way she sighed and reached for the closest chair that sat at the foot of her bed.

And so Clarke found Lexa sitting by her side, the small, grey and plastic chair she sat upon a starkly different one to the mighty throne that adorned Lexa’s tent, whose twisting wooden branches and weathered spear shaft and battered metal seemed at times comical and at times awe inspiring.

Clarke had so many questions she wanted answered, she had so many regrets she wished would leave her be, she had so many thoughts she couldn’t dare hope to comprehend in her weakened state. But Lexa seemed to understand, she always did, for she shifted a little awkwardly in the chair as her clothes, her armour and furs and leathers all battled for space before she seemed to give up and simply settle for reclining ever so slightly as her ankles crossed as she tucked her feet to one side against a lone chair leg.

“It was my presence,” Lexa began quietly, her voice too calm.

“Your presence?” Clarke asked.

“In the forests near nomon’s,” Lexa continued. “Where I go is always watched,” Lexa said. “By those that simply like to know where I am for when they require assistance, by those who like to know where I am for when they wish to offer assistance, and by those who like to know where I am for when they decide to strike,” Lexa paused then, perhaps to order her thoughts, perhaps to control her emotions, “I remained too close for too long,” she said. “And warriors realised, they recognised. They scouted and found where nomon and Nessa lived,” Lexa continued. “Perhaps they searched for you, perhaps they imagined I had found your trail, perhaps it was any combination of all those things, Klark,” Lexa said. “All that matters now is that they found what they searched for, and they attacked.”

At times Clarke had found herself apologising for things too often, at times she thought it deserved, at times she thought it the only thing she could do to settle the situation, to regain control, to give herself time to fight for just a little bit longer. But this time, Clarke felt she needed to apologise for anything she had done, for any part she played in Nessa’s injuries, in her near death, in Alexandria’s home being destroyed and her life being upturned.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke whispered, and she tried not to let the pain take hold. “I’m so, so sor—”

“No, Klark,” and Lexa seemed to catch herself from leaning forward, from reaching out. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

And it was ironic that Clarke found herself apologising despite the past experiences they both shared. But for now, Clarke cared not for her own anguish, but for those who had done no wrong in their lives. And so, for the moment, she ignored that biting, scathing little voice that seemed to darken her thoughts from where it hid in the corners of her mind.

“Did everyone else make it?” Clarke asked, for she couldn’t bear it if others had died trying to get to her.

“Yes,” Lexa answered. “Only Jaxta fell,” and she seemed to look away in thought for a long moment.

Clarke remembered what Jaxta had said, and she knew Lexa wouldn’t dare leave someone to guard her mother and sister unless she trusted them completely, and perhaps not now, at a later time Clarke would try to do or say more to soothe the loss that Jaxta’s death must have caused. But for now, “I’m sorry,” and she meant it. “I’m sorry about Jaxta.”

Lexa breathed in deeply, the motion just barely broken, but Clarke saw the stuttered breath.

“She fought well, Klark,” Lexa said. “She did her duty.”

Perhaps that was always going to be the way it was with Lexa. Duty, emotionless, cold at times. And yet again Clarke fought that darkness in the corners of her mind as she looked Lexa in the eyes.

“She saved our lives,” Clarke said, and she believed it so very much, for she knew if even one more person had broken through Nessa’s door, she wouldn’t have been able to fight them off, she even wouldn’t have been able to do much against a warrior who had been uninjured. But Jaxta had saved them, had taken life until she couldn’t, and had, Clarke was sure, maimed the last warrior with the last of her strength.

“The dead are gone, Klark,” Lexa said as she looked her in the eyes. “The li—”

“Don’t,” and Clarke didn’t want to hear echoes of the past, not now. Perhaps never. She shook her head only to grimace at a pain that flared up her her right shoulder. “Don’t.”

Lexa’s mouth clicked shut with a finality, but she seemed to accept whatever it was for she looked away and sighed.

“You can leave,” Clarke said. “If I’m bothering you,” it came with a little more venom than intended and Clarke found herself uncaring.

But she must have surprised Lexa for the woman’s eyes widened just a fraction before her head tiled to the side ever so slightly.

“I can see you’re restless,” Clarke continued. “You don’t have to be here if you have better things to do.”

“That is not my intention, Klark,” Lexa said as she forced herself still. “I—” she paused.

“I get it,” and Clarke found that frustration dissipate as quickly as it had appeared.

And so they both fell quiet, and perhaps for a moment Clarke realised just how vulnerable she felt as she lay on a table, immobilised, perhaps more open to Lexa than she had ever been before, but she was thankful that Lexa didn’t stare, didn’t ogle, didn’t pry. But only slightly, for she could see Lexa’s gaze taking barely noticeable glances over her body, over her wounds, over her bandages and the wires and tubes that stuck into her body, that fed her medicines and liquids to fight whatever pains and infections she was sure she had suffered from the attack and the fall.

“It’s a chest tube,” Clarke said as she watched Lexa’s gaze settle on the clear tube that snaked its way out from her ribs.

“What does it do?” Lexa asked.

“Make’s sure I don’t die,” she said, and it was a rudimentary answer, but one she thought would be enough for Lexa.

And she thought correctly for Lexa nodded in one slow motion, the understanding on her face far too serious that Clarke knew she didn’t quite understand how it did whatever it did.

“You don’t understand, do you?” perhaps she couldn’t help but to be just a little snarky.

Lexa simply shrugged, “it is tech that keeps you alive,” she said. “That is all I need to know, Klark.”

As Lexa’s words finished, Clarke found herself looking away, she found herself turning her attention to the dimmed light that just barely flickered overhead. And she did so for she realised Lexa never quite asked for explanation, not really, never seemed to dismiss her opinion. Always seemed to do more than she should or give without quite asking or taking when needed.

Or maybe, quite possibly probably, Clarke’s thoughts were clouded by whatever drugs filled her system, that her thoughts were scrambled, that they made no sense even to her own tired mind.

But whatever it was, she found that Lexa’s words was enough to awaken memories and the fleetest of hopes she had once had.

And so it was regret, it was guilt, it was anger and annoyance, frustration and resentment that she couldn’t do anything more than simply lie still and wait until her body was healed before she could really confront the woman who now sat by her side.

“So,” Clarke said, and she thought her voice came out wry, perhaps a little hollow, or perhaps it was simply lost. “What happens now?”

“You will remain under guard in Arkadia until you are well enough to move,” Lexa said simply.

“That’s it?” Clarke asked.

“Nessa will remain under guard in Arkadia until she is well enough to move,” Lexa echoed.

“That’s it?” Clarke couldn’t help but to let her lip twitch up at the corners just a little.

“My nomon will remain under guard in Arkadia until you are both well enough to move,” Lexa said.

“And then what?” Clarke asked, and she knew she could see just a little humour in green of Lexa’s eyes.

“I have warriors patrolling the forests, Klark,” Lexa said. “They search for anyone else who was responsible,” and she seemed to darken in mood just a little.

“Do you know who?”

“I have my suspicions, Klark,” Lexa said.

“But it’s not enough to do anything about, is it,” and Clarke didn’t know if what she said sounded more question or statement.

“No,” Lexa’s head shook sadly. “For now, it is not.”

“You have to have a plan, right?” Clarke asked, for she was sure Lexa wouldn’t just sit by and let this go unanswered.

“I will return to Polis, Klark,” Lexa said. “In time, and I will present the ambassadors with evidence of the attack.”

“Evidence?” Clarke asked.

“Weapons,” Lexa shrugged. “Armour. Furs, clothes, even the footprints that we found in forests,” she paused, and Clarke was sure Lexa read the confusion on her face. “Footprints show us how these attackers moved, how they were trained, where they were trained,” she finished.

“Oh,” and Clarke coughed for a moment and lifted her arm to wipe at her lips only to wince at the strain in her wrist as it pulled against the cast and the way it was bound to her body.

“What’s going to happen to Nessa and Alexandria?” Clarke asked, and she didn’t know what would happen, she didn’t even know if she would be welcomed back, or if she would remain in Arkadia after being returned long before she was willing to return.

“Warriors are guarding their home,” Lexa said. “They will repair it,” but Lexa paused, and it was long enough for Clarke to realise that Nessa and Alexandria’s lives would be changed dramatically now that their whereabouts were discovered.

“You’re going to hide them away again, aren’t you,” Clarke said, and she didn’t know if she meant for the venom in her voice to seep through. “Nessa deserves more than that, Lexa,” she said, and she found her anger beginning to build just a little, she felt her emotions beginning to flare, each thought fuelled by her revelation during their confrontation in the forest so long ago.

“I have not decided what I am to do,” Lexa said, and this time Clarke knew she had tread just a little too close for Lexa’s voice came out cold and full of ice.

“I—” but Clarke bit back whatever it was she was going to say. She didn’t want to fight, not now, not yet. Perhaps all she longed to do was to return to the life she had been living with Nessa and Alexandria before she had realised who they were, before she had been forced to confront Lexa, before she had needed to defend herself and Nessa. Clarke swallowed, she ignored the rawness of her throat and she tried to settle her breathing and her emotions before continuing. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

“No, Klark,” Lexa said with a sad smile that didn’t quite seem to make it to her eyes. “All you should do is rest, heal, regain your strength. You are safe,” but Lexa paused once more, and this time Clarke saw just a flicker of emotion in her eyes. “How is your arm?”

And Clarke couldn’t help but to smile, albeit lopsided and painfully.

“Hurts.”

Lexa’s sliver of a smile seemed to just touch the corners of her eyes then, and as she made to say something Clarke’s gaze snapped to Alexandria whose head nodded before she startled awake, one hand quick to fall to the knife strapped to her hip, the other quick to reach out for Nessa as if she searched for a sign that her daughter still breathed.

Clarke watched as Alexandria seemed to remember where she was before relaxing, her gaze just once moving towards the medbay’s entrance before moving to Dhorma and Ryder who stood on either side of the entrance, and then to the others.

“Klark,” Alexandria said quietly as she smiled, the motion sad, tired but honest.

Clarke found herself unsure of what to say, unsure of how to say whatever she thought needed to be said. But as she made to voice her thoughts she found her vision beginning to blur as tears sprung forth without warning.

“Klark,” Alexandria whispered as she rose from her chair and came to her side in a single motion.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke managed to choke out past the hurt and the pain. “I tried,” and she thought it the least she could do to make amends for whatever role she played in Nessa’s injury. “I tried to stop them. I tried to keep her safe,” and Clarke felt her lips quivering as she tried to fight back the sob.

“You do not need to apologise, Klark,” Alexandria whispered, her own tears beginning to well in her eyes as she knelt down beside her, one hand reaching out to brush away the tears that fell down Clarke’s cheeks. “You did all that you could— more than anyone could have expected.”

Despite Alexandria’s words, Clarke found herself shaking her head, she found herself refusing to believe.

“Nessa is only alive because of you,” Alexandria’s voice came out more firm, more determined.

“I—” Clarke didn’t know what to say. “I—”

“No, Klark,” Alexandria said, her own head shaking. “You did everything that you should have done, do not blame yourself.”

And perhaps it was because Clarke couldn’t quite remember the last time she had felt safe, perhaps it was because she couldn’t quite remember the last time she had felt a mother’s embrace, or perhaps it was a combination of the medicines and drugs, the pain and the fatigue, but whatever it was, Clarke found herself falling apart as tears flowed more freely. Alexandria pressed her lips to her forehead and embraced her as gently as she could, and through it all Clarke felt herself shatter as Alexandria whispered to her words of comfort and of acceptance.

 

* * *

 

Abby felt drained as she tried to focus on the small tablet in her hands. There were things she wanted to say, things she knew she needed to say to Clarke. But she also knew that she couldn’t say them, not yet, not when Clarke’s mind was too dulled from the drugs, and her body too weak to cope with the emotional toll she was sure would arise.

Abby would make things right, or perhaps not quite right, for she knew her role in Jake’s death was something she could never run from, as she also knew Clarke would never quite forgive her. But she wanted to talk, she wanted to explain, more than she already had. But Clarke’s wellbeing came first. So she wouldn’t bring the subject up until Clarke was strong, until she was rested, until she was healed.

Abby sighed then, shook her thoughts and took one moment to save the work on the tablet before placing it on the nearest surface. She heard noise, and as she turned she saw Alexandria rising from her chair from beside Nessa’s still sleeping form, and though Abby couldn’t make out what was said, she could see that Alexandria spoke to Clarke.

She took a second to take in the way the Commander sat awkwardly in the chair beside Clarke’s bed, she even took in both warriors who stood by the medbay’s entrance, but perhaps the thing that made her feel a pang of guilt and loss was the way Alexandria knelt down beside Clarke as one hand reached out to brush away the tears she could hear falling from her daughter’s eyes.

Something cruel flared up in Abby’s heart at the sight she saw. And it was cruel for it was a revelation that what she saw was the result of her actions, of her decisions, of her role in Clarke’s anguish. Abby saw Alexandria press her lips to Clarke’s forehead. Abby watched with a deepening sadness as she saw the woman embrace Clarke as gently as she could. And Abby watched as Clarke leant into the embrace as fully as possible.

And she watched as Alexandria and Clarke embraced each other in a way Abby had once embraced her Clarke. But the thing that hurt the most, was that she couldn’t quite recall the last time she had felt Clarke hold her with as much love as she did the other woman.


	21. Chapter 21

The first thing Nessa became aware of was the odd sensation of the wind that seemed to breathe around her without the rustle of tree branches, leaves and gentle bush. Even the warmth of the sun she so often found accompanying the wind was lacking for she could not feel its heat, she could not feel its touch and its bite. But it was strange. It was strange and odd and unusual. And it was so for the air was not cold and it was not warm, it seemed to dance on the very edge between cool night and warm morning.

The next thing Nessa became aware of was the odd scratchiness that wriggled somewhere in the back of her throat, that seemed to play with her mind, seemed to dance on the periphery of her thoughts. But try as she might, she found herself unable to put a finger on it, she found herself unable to grasp what it must be. And for why, she could not tell.

But as her mind began to wake further, she found herself unable to pinpoint what her last memory was. She remembered walking through the forests near home with Klark and Jaxta. She remembered Jaxta’s laugh, the sound warm and rich to her ears as the woman seemed to find a humour in whatever she had said. She remembered Jaxta hushing them for a moment as the woman knelt down and surveyed the lands before waving them forward with a small smile upon her lips. Nessa remembered breaking free from the forest at the water’s edge. She remembered Klark trying to fire arrow after arrow at the fish that danced just out of reach. She even remembered striking her first fish and wishing that nomon had been there to see.

And Nessa thought those memories happy, she thought them carefree, full of companionship and joy, things for which she had wished so very deeply for as long as she could remember.

Nessa remembered latching onto Klark’s arrival, of never wanting to let go, of never wanting to let her feel the desire to return to her own people. She remembered waking to Klark’s whimpers in the middle of the night, she remembered trying to soothe Klark’s fears. She remembered the days of play, of trying to teach Klark all her nomon had taught her.

She remembered the joy when Dhorma had appeared yet again, she remembered the shock of her sister’s appearance, of not even having expected it for almost another year. She remembered the hopes, the dreams, Jaxta’s arrival and Jaxta’s death.

Nessa’s mind came to a shuddering halt for she remembered it all. She remembered the horn that had echoed out through the forests, she remembered Jaxta pushing them into her room, she remembered Jaxta slamming her door shut.

And Nessa remembered Jaxta’s body, the wounds, the blood, the pain and the anguish.

But most of all, Nessa remembered the fall, she remembered the fear, the pain and the impact of the arrow that had hit her, that had stolen her breath, made her resign herself to never seeing nomon again, to never getting to run through the forests with Klark again, to never getting to embrace Dhorma, to show him what she had learnt, to never getting to hear his laugh and to never seeing Polis with Lexa.

And Nessa’s eyes snapped open.

Pain spread throughout her body. Her arms ached, her ribs seemed to protest every single breath she took and her throat seemed bruised and battered and beaten more than she could even imagine.

As Nessa’s vision cleared, she found herself unable to recognise what she saw. The roof, for surely it must be a roof, was a dulled grey colour. Rectangles of what seemed like metal spread out overhead and dots of burning light seemed to shine a deep and dark white that was at odds with what should be the sky, the blue and the dark of a night. That wind that had first woken her, that had ghosted across her body seemed to draw her attention to a hole overhead that was covered by a mesh of metal, of rods, of odd things she couldn’t quite grasp, but as she continued to watch, as she continued to look, she thought she could see it breathe in time to the wind she felt dancing across her body.

Nessa heard noise then, and as she looked from the corner of her eye she couldn’t help but to feel fear spike, she couldn’t help but to feel a terror and a panic and a dread. And it was for she saw what must surely be tech. Something grotesque, something far beyond her understanding seemed to snake its way from under her own skin and twist and wind and disappear from her vision.

Nessa’s eyes began to water, her vision began to blur and she found her lips trembling as she realised what must have happened, she realised who must have attacked despite the tales of their defeat.

And it was a sadness that filled Nessa’s heart when she realised that Klark must have been hunted, must have been searched for by the last of the Mountain Men in their quest for vengeance.

And Nessa could not remember anything other than the fall, could only just barely grasp flickers of what had happened once she had come to a tumbling stop at the foot of the ridgeline. She knew not where klark was now, but she hoped Klark was free, she hoped Klark had escaped.

As acceptance of what must have happened settled in Nessa promised herself she would not break when the pain started, she promised herself she would not let them know where Klark might have escaped to, and if they knew, if they had somehow found out, she would deny, with every ounce of strength she had, the very fact that she was the Commander’s sister.

And so, as Nessa’s tears began to overflow from the fear she felt, as her lips began to tremble a little more strongly, she hoped Klark had escaped, she hoped Dhorma had found her nomon, and she hoped her sister would be prou—

“Nessa?” her name being called cut through her thoughts. “Nessa?” it sounded once more, this time it seemed more sure, more convinced.

Despite the warnings raging through her mind that it was a trap, a ploy, a trick of the mind, she turned her head a little more this time, uncaring of the pain in her throat for she was certain she recognised her nomon’s voice.

And maybe it was her mind reaching out desperately, perhaps it was her mind conjuring up the only thing it could in her last moments, but what she found sitting beside her, who she found smiling at her with love and relief, was the only person she wanted to embrace as tightly as she could as the fear settled into her heart.

Her nomon sat in a chair, her hair whose braids had always been so very perfect, now appeared a mess of loose strands and wild curls. The kindness and humour, at times annoyance and reprimand, she so often saw in her nomon’s eyes was replaced by a fear, a hope, a relief and a sadness and longing she thought she had never seen before. Even shadows darkened under her nomon’s eyes enough that it gave her pause, made her second guess if it truly was her nomon that she saw or someone else, someone who only seemed oddly familiar.

“Nessa,” her nomon said again but this time her face broke into a love splintered with sadness.

“Nom—” she choked on the words in her throat as pain stabbed into the tired muscles.

“Hush, Nessa,” her nomon said as she leant forward as tears fell from her eyes, “you are safe,” and it was simple, it was gentle, calming, and perhaps for the moment Nessa found herself uncaring if what she saw was a figment of her imagination, if it was a ghost conjured by whatever medicines she must have been given.

All that she knew was that she felt safe, felt loved. And if her nomon was the last thing she would see, then Nessa would embrace it with as much strength her tired heart could muster.

 

* * *

 

Clarke stood in a dimly lit bathroom, a mirror dominated the wall, and a single light flickered overhead. She grimaced at the wound that had only just begun to heal after little more than a week. The chest tube had been removed sooner than she had anticipated, that operation having been much more simple than the one that had saved her from a life of constant stabbing pain every breath she took.

Clarke couldn’t even quite remember how many days it was since the attack, she had lost count of how many days she had woken in a daze, in a cloud of uncertainty only to fall back to sleep before finally arriving at Arkadia. Even the week and a half since then, she found had almost slipped her by with the few conversations she had had with Alexandria and Lexa blurring together, and the short and often awkward exchanged with her own mother seemingly too brief, too shallow for either of them to handle.

As Clarke continued to look down herself and at the new scars that littered her body, and the wounds still healed, she found herself unsure of what to think.

Part of herself felt numb that she had returned to Arkadia long before she had ever anticipated, part of herself felt adrift in a sea of nothing where she knew not what to feel or what to think of her predicament. She had avoided as much contact with those she had once called friends, she had avoided explaining why she had disappeared, if she was truthful, she had avoided explanation of anything at all. And perhaps it was simply because she didn’t know what to make of the fact that she had been hunted, that Nessa and Alexandria’s lives had been turned upside down, had been destroyed all in her name.

That truth made her blood boil, made her see red, made her want to scream and lash out at anyone she thought responsible. And perhaps, if she embraced those feelings, she could forget, at least for a while, the guilt and anger at the actions she had taken at the Mountain, and the hurt, the betrayal, and that other insidious feeling she had come to recognise towards Lexa.

She knew she would face those feelings in time. But not yet, perhaps not for weeks, months, maybe even years.

Clarke pulled her gaze from her torso and she found herself looking at the eyes of the woman who stared back. What she saw frightened her, what she saw made her shiver, made her want to pull her gaze away and never look it in the eyes again. But something deep down forced her to look, forced her to take in the pain and the suffering she saw.

The woman who stared back seemed tired. Shadows darkened under her eyes enough to make it seem as though her eyes had sunken into her face. Cuts and bruises had only just began to fade from across her face, and her features seemed more pronounced, more defined, less full of the health, of the vibrancy and the youth that had once clung to her cheeks. As Clarke continued to look into the woman’s eyes she found the blue that stared back to be full of anguish, full of something she recognised all too well. And it saddened her to know that what she saw was not someone else, but was herself, was what she had become, perhaps what she would always appear to be for the rest of her breathing days.

But perhaps she thought it fitting that someone who had become known as Wanheda, appeared to be void of youthfulness, of health, of happiness and joy.

Disgust flared in the pit of her stomach, and it came out strong, stronger than she could imagine and before she knew it Clarke lashed out with her right hand and punched the mirror as hard as she could.

Pain erupted across her knuckles, blood splattered across the cracks and she gasped and whimpered and cursed as she brought her hand away as chunks of mirror fell and shattered against the harsh of the floor.

“Wanheda?” a voice called out to her from behind the closed bathroom door, its tone careful, worried.

“I’m ok,” Clarke called out, and she grimaced as she eyed the flesh that now lay flayed open across her knuckles.

Though Clarke could see the white of bone, or of tendon, she felt no pain, not quite, anyway. The blood that dripped from the broken mirror splattered into the sink and for a moment Clarke admired its richness, the depths of its red before a regret took control of her thoughts. She reached for a washcloth then, wetted it under the tap and began to clean what she could of her blood that had snaked its way through the cracks in the mirror, and the blood that had dripped from her hand and onto the bathroom counter or into the sink.

Clarke didn’t much care about the stinging that began to take hold of her wound, and she didn’t care as her hand protested the motion as she reached forward and turned on the shadow tap. And perhaps for a moment to let herself imagine how much pain, how much agony it would be to turn the tap as hot as it could go, as hot as it would ever go, and then step into its searing embrace. But perhaps it was a morose kind of thought she had, for she found herself turning the heat down until it was only just tolerable, only just past her breaking point. Clarke did so for she knew she could and would stay under its heat longer, she knew she would let its embrace batter her body, steal her breath and replace any and all sense of who she was with that of a lost woman, of a lost soul, someone who seemed trapped between the searing heat of her angers, and the coldness of what she thought her heart must have become.

But a bitter laugh escaped her lips for she thought herself stupid, she thought herself too poetic in descriptive thought, too easy to lament her woes perhaps simply too pathetic.

And so Clarke stripped. She pulled the shirt she wore off her battered body, flung it into a far corner. She pulled her pants free, uncaring of the protesting pain of her ribs as she bent and twisted and shimmied her way out from their too restrictive embrace. And as the cold of the Ark’s air touched her body, she embraced it for as long as she could before her body began to shiver, before her mind began to seek the heat of the shower.

Clarke stepped into the falling water without worry, and as the steam stole her vision and as the heat stole her breath, she found herself feeling alive.

Clarke felt more alive than she had felt in years. She felt every burning drop of water that lavished her flesh, that stung her bleeding knuckles, that broke against her battered body.

Tears began to fall without warning, and Clarke felt her lips trembling as a sob broke free. A choked sob escape her lips as she imagined what it must have felt for all she had killed, from those warriors who had attacked them at the drop ship, who she had engulfed in flame. She imagined what it must have been like for the children, for those who had wanted no part in the lives that had been taken, who she had killed in the Mountain. She imagined the confusion, the agony, the burning, searing, all encompassing horror and panic and pain that they must have experienced as they all felt themselves burn, as they all watched loved one melt and twist and degenerate into a pool of mess, into a pool of putrid steaming flesh.

Clarke fell to her knees, she let the pain stab into her body as she curled into herself and it hurt. The heat of the steam engulfed Clarke, the burning heat of the shower felt like a flame that battered her body. And she wanted more, she needed more, she needed so very desperately to feel the anguish, to feel the pain. To feel the guilt that had broken her mind more times than she could ever imagine.

And so Clarke Griffin didn’t care how much her flesh began to burn as she reached up and turned the shower faucet, as she let the water turn to its hottest setting, and she didn’t care that her flesh turned red, that whatever wounds had only just begun to heal opened anew. And she didn’t care.

Because she deserved it.


	22. Chapter 22

Lexa came to a stop outside a set of cold metal doors. The Skaikru healer who helped Abby looked from her and then to the door nervously before reaching forward and pressing a button.

“These are their quarters, Commander, she should be inside,” he said as he peered inside just once before stepping aside.

“Thank you, Jackson,” Lexa said as she nodded her head before she entered.

Ryder remained where he was standing outside, back turned to the entrance and gaze moving up and down the hallway. The doors closing behind her was the only sound Lexa could hear as she came face to face with what she had been told were Klark’s former quarters. She took a moment to take in all she saw, from the couch to the table and small kitchen that made use of what little space was available.

Lexa’s gaze fell to one of her warriors who she had ordered follow Klark, and Lexa’s eyes narrowed as she saw the that the woman had pressed her ear to a door and a frown had found its way across her face.

“Heda,” the woman said as she straightened and took a moment to look at the door she had been listening through before coming to face her fully.

“Where is wanheda?” Lexa began.

“In there, Heda,” the woman said, but from the way she paused and bit her lip, Lexa was sure there was more to it than that. “She is in the washroom,” she continued. “She has been in there for a long while.”

Lexa’s head tilted to the side ever so slightly, and it was a worried curiosity that seemed to take hold as she began to move towards the door.

“Why did you listen?” Lexa asked.

“I—” the woman paused and looked away before meeting Lexa’s gaze fully. “I thought I heard something break,” she said. “I asked wanheda if she was ok, and she said she was,” at that Lexa’s eyes narrowed. “Then there was this falling water sound,” and she gestured to the door. “It has not stopped since it started.”

As Lexa came to a stop beside the woman, and as she pressed her own ear to the door she heard the sound of pattering water that came at a steady and constant pace. She didn’t quite know what to make of this, and part of her felt as though she had intruded, that Klark may simply wish to be left alone while she bathed, and that she had far overstepped whatever boundaries had existed between them. But, for some unknown reason, that same warning seemed to be returning in the back of her mind as she continued to listen to the beating water and the absence of any other sounds.

“What broke?” Lexa asked as she pulled her ear from the metal door.

“It sounded like glass, Heda,” the woman said with an apologetic shrug. “I could not hear properly.”

And perhaps at that Lexa’s heart froze. A thousand different scenarios seemed to take hold of Lexa’s mind, and she couldn’t help but to feel a dread beginning to form in her stomach as she registered the fact that Klark had made no sound in a long time, that water falling masked whatever noise could have been heard, and that her warrior had heard the sound of breaking glass.

“Klark,” Lexa let her voice raise as she knocked against the metal door. “Klark,” she repeated her name a little more forcefully as she began to look for that same button Jackson had pressed at the front door.

But no answer came, no sound was heard other than the droning beat of the falling water. Panic began to rise in Lexa’s chest then, and she knew. She knew and she knew and she panicked. Lexa slammed her hand against the metal door.

“Klark,” Lexa yelled out more loudly then, and she didn’t care that she pushed her warrior aside, she didn’t care that she heard the front door open and Ryder rush inside as he reacted to whatever noise he must have heard.

Lexa yelled out Klark’s name again, and this time she swore as she slammed her hand against the metal door in frustration as she took a step back and searched frantically for the same button that had let her inside. But all she saw was the blank evenness of greyed metal.

A snarl ripped from Lexa’s lips as she drew her knife and took only a moment to eye the split that ran down the centre of the door and then she slammed her knife into the space, she forced it in as deep as it could go and then she began to try and pry the doors open. Her knife started to slip, started to loose its purchase but her warrior reached out with her own knife and wedge it sideways enough to give Lexa more purchase.

Klark’s name fell from her lips once more, and Lexa didn’t care that she heard the panic, that she heard the fear beginning to tinge her tone. All she could picture was blood, was a redness that stained her hands, was a pain and a sorrow and a guilt that had existed within her for longer than she wished.

The next few moments happened in a blur.

Ryder came to her side, Lexa felt some of the pressure from the door’s lessen as he began to pull the doors open with as much strength as he could summon. Ryder managed to wedge his fingers into the gap and he braced himself as he pulled hard. Whatever tech kept the doors closed hissed and groaned and protested under the violation, but Lexa didn’t care, she didn’t care about the damage she caused, she didn’t even care that she saw her knife fracture and chip at the edges. She threw it aside as she reached out, grasped part of the door and yanked as hard as she could.

And then the doors hissed open.

Steam streamed out of the washroom, its heat intense, its density enough to steal her vision. Ryder stumbled back with a curse as the doors gave way without resistance, her warrior tried catching him only to fall with the man’s weight, and Lexa jumped over their tangled bodies and into the washroom.

Lexa coughed as she took in a breath, but as her vision adjusted to the steam her gaze fell to the first thing she saw. A mirror dominated one wall, but it was fractured, splintered, shattered and blood spidered its way through each crack, seemed to seep out in every direction. Shards of the mirror lay on the ground, some on the sink, even blood splattered across the surface and filled the air with a metallic tang that was heavy upon her tongue.

And so Lexa’s heart broke as she turned to the sound of the falling water.

She could tell that the water must have been far too hot. She could tell that it must have been streaming down for far too long. But the thing Lexa focused on the most was the pain in her chest as her gaze followed the drips of blood that spilt across the washroom’s floor and that led to a naked body that huddled under the searing heat.

“Klark,” Lexa didn’t know if she sobbed the sound or if she choked it out. She didn’t know if her vision blurred from tears or from the steam that filled the air.

Klark lay naked and motionless under the searing heat. Blood seemed to cover her from head to toe, it seemed to splatter across the tile and the metal and mix with the pouring water.

Lexa reached out to what she assumed must have controlled the water and it took her only a moment of fumbling before she managed to cut the flow. The silence that filled the space was deafening. All she heard was the roaring of the blood in her ears and the last drips of water that fell.

Lexa couldn’t take her eyes off Klark, and she couldn’t for all the wrong reasons. Water droplets glistened over Klark’s skin, some travelled along the lines of her body and followed the valleys of her flesh. But whatever beauty would have once existed was swept away by the bruises, the gashes, the cuts and the blood that covered every part of her. Some wounds had only just barely opened, others had split with renewed strength. Some seemed not to have healed at all since her fall.

“Klark,” Lexa whispered and she tried not to look at the things she shouldn’t look at, she tried not to let her eyes leave Klark’s face. “Klark,” she reached out tentatively, the motion unsure for Lexa didn’t know if Klark would flinch away from any contact.

But Klark seemed so very far removed from the world, she seemed so very consumed by her own thoughts that Lexa wasn’t even sure if Klark had registered her presence. But Lexa flinched as her fingers brushed against Klark’s shoulder, she flinched at the way her skin felt raw, felt beaten and it made her stomach roil, made her heart thump more loudly in her chest.

Lexa forced her gaze away from Klark then, and she looked around for a towel or clothes, anything that she could use to cover Klark’s state of undress.

Her gaze was broken by a shadow that fell across her, and as Lexa looked up she saw Ryder standing awkwardly behind her, his eyes averted and a hand holding out a towel he must have found somewhere.

Lexa thanked him with a single nod before she watched him turn and step out from the washroom, and she knew he wouldn’t let anyone disturb them, she knew he would keep what had happened a secret, and she knew the warrior she had assigned to Klark would do the same. And perhaps she was thankful for that, if only because she wished for Klark’s suffering to be lessened, if only because she blamed herself for the things Klark must blame herself for.

Lexa reached out for Klark’s wrist, if only because she needed to see, just to be sure. She apologised for whatever discomfort moving Klark’s arm caused, but she didn’t think Klark felt or cared, she didn’t even think Klark heard. But nonetheless, apologise she did. And Lexa fought to ignore the curve of Klark’s bare chest as she pulled her arms from where they had been wrapped around her chest and turned them into the light, her actions careful so as not to hurt Klark’s broken wrist more than it must have already been hurt. It wasn’t until Lexa saw Klark’s bloodied knuckles, and it wasn’t until she saw the absence of wounds across Klark’s wrists that she realised she had been holding her breath.

“I am sorry,” Lexa whispered for she felt it the least she could do. But Klark didn’t quite seem to register more than what it took to look her way.

And perhaps it was at that very moment that Lexa felt the entirety of her actions. And it was because their eyes met, and within what had once been fire and a depth, Lexa saw nothing but a hollow ache, a loss and an emptiness that made her bite back a bile that began to rise in the back of her throat.

Lexa reached forward with the towel in her hands and began to dry Klark as gently as she could. She apologised each time she saw Klark wince as the towel brushed against a scrape or a bruise or cut. It wasn’t that Lexa had never seen blood before, and it wasn’t that she had never helped clean wounded warrior after battle. But for some reason this time felt different.

Each gentle motion she made caused a pang of guilt and disgust in the pit of her stomach. And try as she might, she couldn’t seem to keep her motions steady, she couldn’t seem to keep them gentle enough. And as Lexa continued to dry away the water and the blood, she found herself hurting, she found herself hating, and she found herself broken.

And it was for so many things.

Perhaps somewhere in the furthest reaches of Lexa’s mind, she had imagined what it must have been like to care for Klark when that affection was returned. And if she was honest with herself she knew she had imagined a time after the fall of the Mountain, when they had stood surrounded by their fallen enemies. And in that dream she had turned to Klark with a smile, with an offer of retreating to her tent and of them caring for their injuries together. Of sharing in a quiet comfort that could have once grown into more.

But it wasn’t so.

And what Lexa did now seemed to sully that dream, seemed to taint it, and poison it. Lexa hated that she cared for Klark in that moment. She hated that she tried to dry Klark’s body of the pain, she hated that Klark seemed so vulnerable.

And Lexa hated it because it was all she had ever wanted.

But not like that.

 

* * *

 

Clarke didn’t know if it was the pain that tormented her mind. She didn’t know if it was the heat of the burning water, and she didn’t know if it was the wounds that littered her body. But whatever it was, it was enough to dull her thoughts to a simmer, it was enough to drug her into a trance.

And so she didn’t quite know if she dreamed and imagined that Lexa crouched before her, that the woman who she loved and hated and despised rubbed a rough towel across her body. She didn’t know if she imagined the way Lexa’s eyes would try not to stare, would widen just a fraction at times when they looked upon whatever she tried to avoid, and Clarke didn’t know if she hoped what she saw was real, or if she hoped she had simply died, had simply let her mind take control for the very last moments of her life.

But perhaps it was partly real, if only because she felt a slight stab of pain as the Lexa before her reached out and wrapped the towel around her shoulders and tried to pull her to her feet.

Clarke heard her name whispered against the shell of her ear and it took her a moment before she realised Lexa had lifted her up, and held her close to her chest and now carried her out of the bathroom.

Clarke didn’t care that she saw that warrior who had followed her the last couple days avert her eyes and turn to the front door. Clarke didn’t care that the bathroom doors seemed to be hanging open even though she was sure she had locked them, and she didn’t care that Lexa took them both to her old bedroom.

Clarke wondered if she had died, if she had somehow accidentally sliced open an artery and had bled out in the shower. She wondered if she now imagined what life could have been like if Lexa had never betrayed her, if they had had their happily ever after.

And perhaps Clarke thought she had truly sliced open an artery and that she was to die in the next few moments. If only because she lay in her childhood bed in the arms of someone she thought she loved despite the things that had happened. If only because she thought that the lullaby wending its way through her mind came from Lexa. And she thought the way it gentled away her pain seemed so very beautiful. And perhaps once upon a time Clarke had imagined that this was what a happy life on the ground would have been like.


	23. Chapter 23

Clarke dreamt she was drifting somewhere far away from anywhere she had once called home. She dreamt she was lying atop a bed of nothingness that took her weight, that stole her breath and floated her where it pleased.

Her sleep wasn’t peaceful, nor was it calm. Perhaps even calling it sleep wasn’t so correct for she didn’t know when last she had slept without her actions having weighing heavy upon her mind.

Something distant seemed to be calling to her through the haze. She thought it piercing, she thought it a shining beacon in the distance, a hand held out to her and a guiding presence for when she felt lost.

She took a deep breath, let it fill her lungs as deeply as it could and she rolled into the warmth beside her, she rolled into the embrace she couldn’t quite place, and she leant into scents that she had once thought intoxicating.

And she froze.

Clarke’s eyes snapped open, she halted whatever she had been in the midst of doing and her gaze settled on the blurry image of black fabric stitched intricately together, her gaze settled on a studded gauntlet, and a knife held in a sheath that lay against a black clad thigh.

It took her a moment longer to realise a hand rested atop her hair, its place perhaps unconscious, its presence at least not unwelcome. A shiver ran through her next, and a moment’s confusion was all she had before panic flooded her mind as her memories came crashing back.

She remembered punching the mirror, she remembered splitting open the skin across her knuckles. She remembered the searing heat of the shower and she remembered Lexa breaking down the door, picking her up and carrying her to her old bedroom with little thought for how exposed she was.

Panic flooded her mind, if only because she couldn’t quite remember if she had been dressed, if she had been covered before she fell asleep. But thankfully Clarke looked down the length of her body to find that she was wrapped in a thick fur, that its edges were tucked in under her body. But to be sure, to be safe, she wriggled her toes, she let her legs slide against themselves just enough to realise that she remained undressed under the furs and the emotion she felt seemed to exist on the border between embarrassment and resigned acceptance.

Clarke took in a deep breath to steady her beating heart and she rolled onto her back and tried not to make more noise than she needed as she looked around herself. Lexa sat on the edge of the bed, one legged tucked under herself, the other stretched out along the length of the bed, its warmth and presence the thing Clarke found she had been pressed against in her sleep.

Lexa’s eyes remained closed as her chest rose slowly with each breath she took. From the single strand of hair Clarke could see tickling Lexa’s nose to the way her jaw seemed free of tension, she could tell Lexa was asleep.

Clarke didn’t know how long she had slept for, it could have been minutes, it could have been hours, but she thought it couldn’t have been too long, if only for she was sure that Lexa would have been needed else where.

But as the shock of her situation began to fade, Clarke found old emotions beginning to rise. A bitterness tinged whatever calm had settled and Clarke rolled away from Lexa’s leg, hands careful so as to take the furs with her, and Clarke found that she put space between them, that she sat at the furthest end of her small bed, knees pulled to her chest and the furs wrapped around her body completely in an unconscious attempt to put as much between them as she could.

Lexa’s eyes opened then, and the motion came slow and measured, and for a moment Clarke couldn’t quite tell if Lexa had truly been asleep or simply resting.

“Klark,” it was simple, quiet and calm, but her name broke the silence and seemed to rest in the space between them.

“Lexa,” was all she said, perhaps in part because she didn’t trust her voice not to break, perhaps in part because she didn’t know if she wanted to open the prospect of further conversation.

“Are you ok, Klark?” Lexa asked.

“I—” but Clarke didn’t know how to respond, not quite, anyway. “Yes,” it was a lie, and she could tell Lexa knew it to be one from the way she inclined her head ever so slightly.

“There are ointments for burnt skin,” Lexa said after a pause.

Clarke couldn’t deny that the offer was enticing, if only because the more she woke, the more her mind seemed to focus on the sensitivity of her scolded skin.

“I’m fine,” it came out curt.

Lexa looked away then, and Clarke couldn’t tell if it was to hide an emotion, or if it was an attempt to give herself time to think and to consider. And it was awkward, the silence, the uncomfortable scratching of her skin against what should have been, and what probably was, the softest of furs. It was uncomfortable, the fact that Clarke was sure Lexa had seen her bare to the world, had seen her so helpless and pathetic. But Clarke thought herself not one to shy away from judgement, she thought herself not one to turn at the first sign of danger.

And so she made sure her gave never wavered from Lexa’s face, and she told herself it was because she was being defiant, that she wasn’t letting anyone make her feel any less certain than she did.

But deep down she knew it to not be so. If only for the simple fact that there were times when she broke, there were times when she let too hot water scold her flesh and leave her a shivering, whimpering mess.

“Nessa woke.”

Clarke’s mind froze as Lexa looked back to her, and this time Clarke was sure whatever emotions she had been just barely seeing in Lexa’s eyes were gone.

“I—” Clarke grimaced just a little at the scratchiness of her throat. “Can I see her?” she was glad Lexa seemed not to want to linger too long on the fact that she had seemingly stayed by her side, or on the fact that she still remained undressed under the furs.

“That is why I searched for you, Klark,” Lexa said as she rose to her feet in a single elegant motion. “I believed you would want to see her,” Lexa paused for another moment before she gestured to the small bedside table. “Your clothes,” she said. “I will wait for you outside.”

Clarke waited until Lexa left her bedroom before rising from the bed. Each movement she made seemed to be accompanied by an ache, whether in her wrist, her ribs, or any other part of her body still not fully healed. She found the clothes she had discarded on the bathroom floor folded neatly atop her bedside table, even her other belongings, including Nessa’s knife that was given to her were present, and she tried not to recognise the care in which they had been laid out carefully.

Clarke dressed as quickly as she could despite her still healing wounds. She spared only a moment to look down her torso and to the new scar that cut between her ribs, that had been stitched closed as neatly as could be expected and she tried not to let its image burn into her mind too cruelly before she pulled her gaze away.

But as Clarke took a step towards her closed door she found herself pausing, if only to think and to consider. Part of her wanted to scream out her angers to Lexa, part of her wanted to tear her apart. Another part of her wanted to weep, to beg and to plead and to agonise over every little moment they shared. Even more parts of her wanted nothing more than to crumble, to fall to pieces in the hopes that someone else would come by and pick her up and put her back together with judgement and pity.

And so Clarke let her forehead rest against the cold of the metal door for just a moment. She took in one deep breath and she ignored the stabbing pain in her ribs.

And then Clarke stepped out from her bedroom and let whatever tormented her mind settle into the deepest depths of her subconscious.

 

* * *

 

The medbay remained closed off to much of the public, its lights were dimmed to a gentle glow and any noise and sound that was made seemed muted and sombre. Warriors still lined the hallway to the medbay’s entrance, even a few Skaikru guards now stood close by, their presence, Clarke couldn’t quite tell, for protection or halfhearted threat.

Clarke sat in a chair near Nessa’s bed, her gaze focused on Nessa’s chest as it rose and fell evenly with each sleeping breath the girl took.

“What happens now?” Clarke asked quietly lest she wake Nessa. She looked around to those few who remained close by. Dhorma stood at the head of Nessa’s bed, one hand resting atop his knife as his eyes flickered from Nessa’s sleeping face to the entrance to the medbay and back. Alexandria sat by Nessa’s side, too, the woman clearly very tired, though reluctant to sleep.

Clarke swallowed whatever pride she felt as she looked around for Lexa who stood nearby, the tension that had once been gone now clearly present in way she stood looking at Nessa’s sleeping face.

“You do not need to worry about what happens next, Klark,” Lexa said simply.

“No,” she shook her head only to wince at a pain that flared. “I deserve to know as much as anyone else here,” and she couldn’t help but to see Dhorma’s head tilt to the side ever so slightly as his eyes narrowed in thought.

Lexa sighed, the sound perhaps a little too loud for Clarke’s liking, and she couldn’t help but to shoot Lexa a glare that she knew must seem comical with how red her face must be from the scolding water. But Lexa simply took the reproach in stride as she looked from Nessa and then to her before glancing briefly to Alexandria.

“Warriors will remain in and around Arkadia until it is safe,” Lexa said after a short while.

Perhaps the conversation Clarke knew they were to have could have been had somewhere else, but as she looked around, she thought those present all deserving to hear what was to be said, or at least not willing to repeat it in the company of others.

“Skaikru won’t like that,” she kept her voice low yet measured, her eyes never wavering from Lexa’s face.

“They will do as I command, Klark,” Lexa said.

“It’s going to be a problem, Lexa,” and Clarke lifted her chin in defiance. “After what you did at the Mountain,” and Clarke was thankful that her voice didn’t shake. “They won’t like your warriors here.”

“And what would you have me do instead?” Lexa challenged, but something in the back of Clarke’s mind whispered a warning, if only because she thought Lexa moved the conversation towards a desired goal. “I will not leave Nessa unprotected, so my warriors will remain with her until she is safe. I can not take her to the Mountain,” Lexa continued, “as you say, Skaikru will not approve of my warriors there,” and now it was Lexa’s turn to level her chin in defiance.

“Fine,” and Clarke found her lip twitching up into the barest hints of a snarl fuelled by frustration and tiredness and pain and any myriad of other emotions that plagued her mind. “I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing, Klark?” Lexa’s head tilted to the side slightly.

“You want me protected, too,” and Clarke knew she guessed correctly when Lexa’s face remained neutral, and despite what she said, Clarke tried not to think too hard about what it meant that Lexa wished not to leave her unprotected.

“You are Wanheda,” Lexa said simply. “There are those that still wish to take your power for themselves.”

Clarke grimaced at the name, at the things Lexa said, but she also considered what Lexa truly wanted, if only because she didn’t quite know if she was ready to spend more time than she already had with Lexa.

And yet, the more Clarke thought, the more she realised that perhaps facing her emotions head on was better than letting it eat her up inside, that being forced to deal with them was the only thing she could do now. Or maybe she was stubborn, too stubborn to let Lexa win, to back down, to give up so easily.

“You want me to come to Polis,” she said, and she let her gaze harden as she held Lexa’s gaze. “You want me there so you can keep an eye on me. Know where I am at all times.”

Lexa’s head tilted even further to the side, and yet Clarke thought even that new motion barely noticeable to most.

“It is the safest thing for you,” Lexa said. “And for Nessa. She will need to be cared for and she will need a friend.”

And perhaps if Clarke had been feeling less fatigued, she would have felt angry at Lexa trying to guilt her into accepting her wishes, she would have felt enraged at Lexa having assumed what she was to do, and if she had been less caring of the girl who lay asleep on the hospital bed, she would have felt all those emotions rise to the surface and engulf her.

Yet Clarke felt none of those things, if only because as she looked at Nessa’s sleeping form she couldn’t quite find it in herself to think of much more than the days they had spent roaming the forests near her home, fishing by the river’s edge and of whispered words of comfort at times when she had felt lost and broken. And she thought of all the loss Nessa had faced in her life, she thought of all the things she had never experienced, that had been ripped away from her. And perhaps for a moment Clarke couldn’t help but to think that Nessa had been one of the only things in her life since the Mountain that had given her reason to rise with each new day.

And so she grit her teeth, accepted her part to play in whatever game her life had become, and she turned her gaze back to Lexa.

“I’ll go with you to Polis.”


	24. Chapter 24

Clarke woke to what she thought was a gentle tugging of one of her braids. For some reason she felt no need to open her eyes too quickly, perhaps in part because she felt tired, and perhaps in part because she thought she had been dreaming something kind, something faraway and gentle. But she felt the tug once more, this time just a little more forcefully,and she couldn’t help but to smile the barest of smiles.

Clarke opened her eyes to the dimmed lights of the medbay. Alexandria seemingly deep asleep in her chair, her legs curled under herself and her head propped up by a lone hand. Clarke’s gaze fell to Ryder and Dhorma, both men standing by the medbay’s entrance, and though they stood, Clarke thought them asleep, or perhaps awkwardly at rest for their eyes were closed, their breathing even and their hands resting atop sword and knife. Movement deeper into the medbay caught her attention for a short moment and she watched as Jackson busied himself with a young member of Skaikru she only just recognised, whose nose was clearly broken, whether from training, or from a too rambunctious enthusiasm.

The tug on her hair came again, and Clarke didn’t fight the smile as she turned her head and came face to face with gentle green eyes, a bruised face and a lopsided and toothy grin.

“Nessa,” she said quietly, if only so she didn’t disturb Alexandria’s sleep.

Nessa mouthed her name, the girl’s voice coming hoarse, rough, unused and battered. Clarke couldn’t help but to wince at the sound, but Nessa seemed not to mind, at least not completely for she simply let the braid she held drop from her grasp as she settled more comfortably onto her side.

Clarke eyed the bandage that wrapped around Nessa’s neck, she eyed the cuts and bruises across Nessa’s face, that were mirrored upon her own, and she even took the time to take in the cast that held Nessa’s wrist steady, whose bone had been fractured, and Clarke couldn’t quite decide whether she thought them both incredibly lucky, or incredibly unlucky in their shared misfortune.

“Are you hungry?” Clarke asked as she focused on Nessa’s face once more, and she smiled as Nessa took a slow and purposeful nod. “It’s soup,” Clarke said as she turned in her seat and reached for the bowl that had now cooled to a gentle warmth. “You aren’t allowed to eat anything else for a while,” and she smiled as Nessa rolled her eyes and sighed a ragged sound.

Nessa tried reaching forward only to wince at the strain in her body. And though Clarke only had the full function of one hand she managed to tuck the bowl against her side and help Nessa into a more comfortable position on the bed, half propped up by a mixture of Skaikru pillows and thick furs.

“Can you keep it steady?” Clarke asked as she set the bowl down in Nessa’s lap.

“Y—” Nessa winced and instead nodded her head as she let her uninjured hand reach down and hold the bowl steady.

They fell into a quiet rhythm them, Clarke careful as she spooned small mouthfuls of soup for Nessa. Through it all, Nessa seemed content to accept the help, her quiet in part due to her injuries, and also, Clarke was sure, in part to the still raw emotions she was sure Nessa still battled with.

Clarke didn’t even know if Nessa had been told of their plan to take her to Polis, she didn’t know just how long she had been asleep, nor did she know where Lexa or her mother had disappeared to. But Clarke didn’t mind, not much at least. And she didn’t for she found herself enjoying this quiet with Nessa, if only because it kept her mind from the actions of the past, if only because it kept her focused on making sure Nessa was as comfortable as could be expected.

Nessa would cough occasionally, the soup in her mouth quick to spill onto her chin, and Clarke found herself simply picking up a small napkin, drying off Nessa’s chin with little worry and great care before waiting for the girl to be ready to eat once more.

But as the silence stretched Clarke couldn’t help but to have her mind wander, drift, take itself wherever it pleased. And she knew she should try a little harder, she knew she should try a little more strongly to stop but she couldn’t.

And so she thought over all the things she remembered from the attack, she thought over the fear, the panic, the anger and the desperation, and she tried to remember any details that she could, any little bits of information that she thought would help Lexa uncover who was responsi—

Nessa’s hand closed around her wrist and interrupted her wandering thoughts. As Clarke’s gaze settled on her, she realised she had stopped mid motion, the spoon in her hand held somewhere awkwardly out of reach of Nessa.

“Sorry,” she said as she began to offer the spoon.

Nessa shook her head slightly, the motion enough for Clarke to put the spoon back into the half empty bowl.

“Do you want anything to drink?” she asked.

“No,” Nessa’s voice came out soft and hoarse.

“Ok,” Clarke said with a sad smile as she watched Nessa push the bowl towards her.

She took the offered bowl, set it aside and she thought about helping Nessa lie back down more comfortably, but from the frown upon the girl’s face and the way she chewed on her lip, Clarke was sure Nessa wished to do what she could without aid.

“How’s your neck?” Clarke asked, and she eyed it carefully, perhaps partly because she fears Nessa’s swallowing had upset the stitches, and partly because she still felt responsible for what had happened to her.

“Sore,” it came out a gentle whisper. Nessa paused for a moment as she looked around herself, and Clarke watched as her gaze settled on the monitor that flashed symbols, things to note, any number of pieces of information Jackson or her mother would need at a moment’s glance in case something went wrong. “I am at Arkadia,” Nessa said eventually.

“Yeah,” Clarke said with a smile. “You are,” and Nessa smiled a small smile as she looked back at her.

“It is strange.”

“Yeah,” and Clarke was sure it must have been strange for Nessa. “It is, a bit.”

“I—” Nessa paused for a moment as she seemed to battle with a cough that threatened to jostle her throat. “I thought I was dreaming,” she said, and despite the lightness in her tone Clarke was sure she could sense the pain in the girl’s words. “I thought I had been captured by the Mountain,” and Nessa looked away, perhaps in an attempt to hide away her fears, or perhaps to give herself time to think. “But Nomon was here,” she said as she looked back to Clarke.

“She’s been very worried,” Clarke said and she glanced once to Alexandria to see her still sound asleep, her head having drooped just a little.

Nessa’s lip started to quiver then, and Clarke felt her heart aching as the girl blinked back whatever tears began to form.

“Hey,” Clarke said as she reached out and squeezed Nessa’s shoulder gently. “I’m here. We’re both here for you,” she said as she gestured to Alexandria. “Even Lexa’s here to make sure you’re safe.”

But Nessa shook her head once as she closed her eyes tightly, whatever emotions had sprung forth now taking hold more forcefully of her mind. A sob broke past her lips despite how hard Clarke could see her trying to stifle it.

“You’re ok,” Clarke whispered as she moved closer and reached out and brushed away hair that had clung to Nessa’s forehead. “You’re ok,” and perhaps Clarke wondered what it would have been like if she had had someone to help her in her darkest times, if she had had someone who had been willing to comfort her, to talk to, to keep her sane and grou—

But she had. Alexandria had been there. Nessa had been there, and so Clarke killed her thoughts perhaps so quickly that they barely finished forming.

“I’m here, Nessa,” Clarke whispered. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again,” she said. “And your nomon, she’ll protect you forever. And Lexa. No one can hurt you anymore.”

Maybe Clarke shouldn’t promise things she knew may never be possible. Maybe Clarke shouldn’t give Nessa false hope. But she thought above all else, that it was important that Nessa felt safe, that she felt cared for and that she had people who would be there in her time of need.

For wasn’t that what Nessa and Alexandria had given her? Wasn’t that what Clarke had longed for during her year of isolation in the Ark?

And so Clarke leant forward, she pressed her lips to Nessa’s forehead and she tried to convey as much warmth and kindness in the motion that she could. She pulled away slowly, perhaps in part in the hopes that Nessa would understand that she would always be near, or would always offer comfort and support when it was needed. Nessa smiled then, but it seemed a little sad and perhaps a little broken, but Clarke thought she saw a resolve beginning to form in the young girl’s eyes.

“We’re friends, Nessa,” Clarke said with a warmth she felt radiating from beneath her chest. “And friends help each other when they are afraid.”

 

* * *

 

The fresh warpaint upon Lexa’s cheeks felt cool against her skin. Lexa followed Bellamy as he continued to walk down the hallway. Tamen and Hadta shadowed her steps, both handmaidens having demanded, albeit silently and however subtly, that they accompany her for protection.

She had considered having Ryder, Dhorma or any one of her other guards accompany her, but she knew what message that would convey and so she had initially settled on having the meeting alone, if only because she didn’t quite think the risk of attack too high.

But both handmaidens’ protests had swayed her, and so she continued to walk the halls of Arkadia with both women in tow. And perhaps it would be good to have some form of intimidation, for she knew that Tamen and Hadta were both intimidating in their own ways, and she knew she shouldn’t be too at ease, if only because her actions at the Mountain must still fuel resentment and frustration. But perhaps most of all, her coming request would be met with refusal, with a reluctance and perhaps even anger.

Bellamy turned one last corner, and as Lexa followed him around it she found the hallway ended to reveal large glass doors, controlled by tech that seemed to weave and blend its way into the walls. A glowing square was recessed into the centre of the glass walls, and through the glass Lexa could see more glowing squares, each one with a moving image she couldn’t quite discern from the distance.

Bellamy reached out, pressed his hand to the glowing square and the doors hissed open of their own accord, and though Tamen and Hadta kept their intrigue hidden, Lexa could tell that both women began to take in every piece of tech they saw.

Lexa stepped through the threshold and into the new room. A large circular table dominated its centre and around it stood Abby, Kane, a man she had seen only briefly during the Mountain’s siege and the dark skinned, bald man who she recognised had been amongst the Skaikru guard.

“Commander,” Kane said as he straightened after bowing his head and Lexa saw his eyes trace the edges of the warpaint she wore.

“Kane,” and Lexa inclined her own head in greeting as she came to stop by the table’s edge.

“You wanted to speak with us?” he asked, and Lexa saw him look once from Tamen and Hadta before his gaze settled back on her.

Lexa nodded then, and in the short silence she let linger she took the time to take in the stubble that lined his face, she took in the way Abby’s posture seemed stiff, as if she willed herself to stand when she would rather curl into a ball on the ground and rest, and she let herself take in the other man who stood beside her, his arms folded and a frown on his face as he looked at her with open uncertainty. Lexa’s attention was pulled to the bald man who glared at her with a distrust and only for a moment was she thankful that Tamen and Hadta had accompanied her, if only because she knew both handmaidens would recognise his threat, would stare him down into submission and let her deal with the others fully.

“Commander,” Kane’s voice broke the quiet. “If I may?”

“Speak, Kane,” Lexa said.

“Is there something we need to worry about, Commander?” Kane asked.

Lexa took a moment to consider all that she knew, and for a moment she thought of lying, of telling him a truth so thickly veiled by deceit that to call it truth would be a disservice. But the full truth, she couldn’t share no matter how much any one had already uncovered.

“My warriors will take our wounded from Arkadia soon,” she said as she looked Kane in the eyes. “We thank you for your hospitality,” the bald man snorted at that, but Lexa ignored it.

“Commander,” Abby began, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to move the girl. Not yet.”

Lexa let her eyes harden just a little as she turned her attention to Abby. She saw a determination in the woman’s eyes, she saw a fire behind the fatigue and she saw a challenge.

“The girl is weak,” Lexa continued after a pause, and she didn’t miss the way Abby’s yes narrowed a fraction at the mention of Nessa. “She will need to be cared for,” and Lexa’s gaze turned back to Kane slowly. “But I am returning her to Polis.”

Lexa saw recognition dawn upon Abby’s face from the corner of her eyes, she saw Kane’s head tilt ever so slightly in thought and she ignored whatever expressions were upon those few who were also present.

“You want me to come, don’t you?” Abby said after a moment, and Lexa heard resignation, annoyance, perhaps expectation and even defiance.

“Yes,” Lexa said as she turned her attention to Abby before leaning forward just enough that the shadow cast from whatever light overhead and her warpaint would bathe her face in a deathly glow. “You will be coming to Polis to care for the girl until she is well.”

 

* * *

 

Nessa drifted in and out of sleep, each time she woke Clarke made sure she was comfortable, as content as she could be given the circumstances. She thought about waking Alexandria, too, but she decided against it, if only because she knew how tired she must be, she knew how little she had slept in the last few days, where only when Nessa had woken had she truly allowed herself to rest.

Part of Clarke stayed to make sure Nessa was comfortable, but part of her also stayed in the hopes that she wouldn’t fall into her mind again. She had thought she was learning to deal with the things she had done, but perhaps she had thought wrong for when she had time to be alone with her thoughts she had found herself spiralling deeper and deeper into something she couldn’t quite place.

And so she hoped that staying by Nessa’s side would be enough.

It wasn’t until hours later, perhaps late at night or very early morning, that Clarke realised she had seen no sign of Lexa, or either of the two handmaidens who had stayed close by. Nor had she seen any sign of her mother who had so often been close at hand to check on Nessa. Clarke thought it just a little unusual, she thought it just a little strange.

She looked at Nessa, who in her sleep, without the smile and the emotion upon her face looked so very much like Lexa. She looked to Alexandria who still remained asleep, whose wild curls just barely streaked with grey made her wonder for futures she knew not to happen. But Clarke pulled her gaze from mother and daughter and she found herself looking at Ryder and Dhorma, both men awake, their gazes settled somewhere into the distance, and Clarke wondered if they strained to hear any sound that could give way to danger, she wondered if they truly were present, if their bodies ever became accustomed to the hours they must spend ever ready to react.

But a thought, an idea, something not so certain began to take hold of her mind and so Clarke looked back to Nessa and Alexandria just once more before she rose from her chair. Dhorma’s gaze reacted to her movements and she felt his eyes follow her as she began to move towards the medbay’s exit.

Clarke had hardly grown accustomed to one or two or even three of Lexa’s warriors falling into step behind her wherever she went. Part of it annoyed her, if only because it made her feel like a prisoner again, and part of it made her blood boil because she didn’t like how it made her face whatever actions and revelations were to be had by the fact that Lexa had instructed her warriors to protect her. And so Clarke sighed and grimaced past the ache in her ribs as two warriors began to follow her as she stepped free from the medbay.

She wove her way through the Ark’s interior, from hallway to hallway until she came to the exit whose doors were opened, the entrance lit by flame.

The sky overhead had now begun to darken for the night, light washed the blue into shades of purple and orange and red and the camp that had sprung out around Arkadia seemed just a little more bustling than it had just a few days earlier.

Clarke’s gaze settled on Lexa’s tent in the distance, its size dwarfing the others, the presence of guards around it clear sign she resided within. It only took her a few long minutes before she came to the tent’s entrance, her chest rising just a little too quickly for her comfort as she waited for the warrior to wave her in.

The woman eyed her for a moment before turning her back and poking her head inside, whatever words she uttered lost upon Clarke. But she turned back to face her with a nod of her head and a wave for her to proceed.

Perhaps the moment should have felt momentous, perhaps it should have been something so very much more grand that it was, maybe it should have ben built with anticipation, anger and frustration and hate and regret all rolled into the very pit of her stomach. And it should have been all those things for Clarke could remember so very distinctly the last time she had walked into Lexa’s tent. She could remember the time of day, the sounds of warriors training. She could remember the frustration she had felt at Lexa’s stubbornness, at her willingness to take Octavia’s life. She could remember threatening Ryder at gun point. She remembered him staring him down, his eyes full of daring, of anticipation for violence. She remembered Lexa telling him to stand down, to wait for her command. Clarke even remembered backing Lexa into the table, she remembered Lexa’s voice drip with venom as she told her to get out. Clarke remembered the second guessing in-between, she remembered all the little things that had led to a moment she thought so very tender and sweet.

But she remembered the confusion, the heartbreak, the pain and anger.

And so Clarke willed her voice not to falter, she willed her mind not to relent, and she willed herself not to break.

Clarke stepped into Lexa’s tent.

Candles burned and flickered their light. Shadows danced with the barely noticeable breeze and furs lay on the ground, sheer fabrics hung from above.Lexa’s war table dominated the centre of the room and a map lay atop its surface.

Clarke’s attention was drawn to movement in the corner of the tent and she watched as Lexa turned to face her. Despite the strumming of her heart, Clarke almost couldn’t hold back the startled laugh as she saw the paint across Lexa’s face, half of it gone, the other smudged and clearly in the process of being removed.

“Klark,” Lexa said as she straightened her back and squared her shoulders, her clothes softer and less adorned with the armour Clarke so often saw the other woman wear.

“I—” Clarke paused, perhaps to kill the smile she refused to let play across her lips, and perhaps also reorganise her thoughts. “I can come back.”

“No, Klark,” Lexa said as she began to move away from the corner of her tent where her bed lay tucked behind a hanging fur.

“Where were you today?” Clarke asked, and she winced as she crossed her arms only for her still raw skin and healing wrist to protest the friction and contact. “Nessa asked about you,” she finished as she let her arms hang by her sides.

“I was busy, Klark,” Lexa said and she seemed not to be able to look her in the eyes, and for why, Clarke could guess just a little despite how embarrassing it was. And yet, Clarke was surprised to find that she didn’t know how to feel about it, about anything really.

Perhaps she was simply too tired of feeling too much in recent times that being numbed to it now was a relief, however bitter, however sweet.

“I can see,” and Clarke gestured to Lexa’s face, and she didn’t mean for her words to come out so full of snark. But they did and she didn’t shy from it.

Lexa ignored the bite in her words and simply came to stand before her, close enough that Clarke could see each breath Lexa took, far enough away that she couldn’t feel the heat that had once existed between them.

“Members of Skaikru will accompany us to Polis,” Lexa said eventually. “Your nomon will ensure Nessa returns to full health.”

“I see,” and Clarke wasn’t surprised, if only because she knew her mother would have insisted Nessa have treatment, have care, and would have argued for her to remain. “You threatened or demanded she come, didn’t you,” and it came out more of a statement then a question.

“It is best,” Lexa said. “For my people and for yours,” and this time her gaze snapped back to hers with an intensity.

Clarke didn’t need to be told why having Lexa’s warriors within and surrounding Arkadia would cause issues since the Mountain.

“How are your burns?” Lexa asked then, and the question came out a little softer, and Clarke hated the way it made her remember the last conversation they had shared in the very same spot they had once stood.

“Ok,” Clarke answered with a shrug, and now it was her turn to not be able to look Lexa in the eyes.

But it was a lie, for each time her clothes rubbed against her raw flesh made her want to recoil, to pull them away from her. But she embraced the pain, if only because it was something that kept her mind from her past.

Clarke was tired of running though, she was tired of hiding. Of being content to recognise why she hid only for her to hide away regardless.

And so she took in a deep breath and forced herself to hold it despite the pain in her ribs. When she let it out she forced herself to look Lexa in the eyes, she forced herself to hold Lexa’s gaze, and she forced herself to step just a little closer lest Lexa try to move away, try to avoid her presence, her proximity and her heat.

“Why’d you do it, Lexa?” Clarke whispered. “You broke my heart.”


	25. Chapter 25

Clarke wasn’t entirely sure if admitting just how badly she was hurt by Lexa’s actions was smart, she didn’t even know if she had fully come to terms with what she felt either. She had spent so long just trying to hide away, just trying to ignore the pain. But the moments of calm, of quiet had seemed to come with more frequency since returning to Arkadia. And in those moments she had found herself with far too much time for self-reflection.

“You broke my heart, Lexa,’ she said again, this time a little more firmly and she stepped closer, enough that she invaded the other woman’s space, enough that she forced her back, forced her to retreat, to feel any of the discomfort Clarke had felt ever since the Mountain. “You—” and Clarke blinked in surprise as she found tears beginning to form in her eyes, “—broke my heart,” and Clarke didn’t mean for her hand to come and rest atop her own heart as if she tried holding it together. “You broke me.”

Lexa swallowed, the motion heavy, slow and awkward. As Clarke let herself take in Lexa, as she took in the half removed warpaint that smeared across one of her cheeks, and as she tried to see whatever words Lexa would never say, she found herself growing angry, and it was anger for she wanted Lexa to say something, to do more than look at her with an intensity that made her want to scream.

“Say something,” Clarke didn’t mean for her voice to come out so harsh but it did. It did and she embraced it. “Say something, Lexa.”

“What would you have me say, Klark?” Lexa said, and her voice came out firm.

A spark of something dark, something deep, hidden, ferocious and violent ignited deep within Clarke’s mind. She didn’t quite know what triggered it. Perhaps it was the depths of her pain. Perhaps it was the guilt, the loss. Maybe it was Lexa’s expression, ever calm, ever serene and impossible to read.

Clarke slapped Lexa.

And she was sure she didn’t mean to do so, she was sure she didn’t even think it through properly. And no sooner had her hand begun to rise, no sooner had her fingers made contact with Lexa’s face, did she begin to regret, begin to curse her stupidity.

And she did so for in her anger, in her pain and blinding frustration, she had forgotten her wrist was fractured, was still mending. Pain exploded up her arm, it seemed to stab into her bone, her muscle, her very fibres.

Clarke yelped an undignified sound, something between startled cat and mewling whimper. Tears sprung into her eyes more forcefully than she had ever anticipated, and she felt her arm bend just a little too far in the wrong direction.

Clarke cursed, she spluttered and she hated the fact that Lexa’s cheek barely showed any sign of her strike. And through it all Clarke hoped, she prayed, she begged that the slap had hurt Lexa as much as it had hurt her, if only because she wanted, she needed, she wished and hoped Lexa felt even the slightest amount of pain she felt.

Clarke fell to the ground, her arm cradled to her chest, tears falling down her cheeks as she clenched her eyes tight and tried to fight back the pain.

“Klark,” her name came out whispered.

She shook her head in the hopes that what happened was all a dream.

“Klark,” Lexa whispered the words a little more tenderly than she had ever heard.

“What?” Clarke didn’t know if she shouted, if she whispered or sobbed and choked the single word out.

“Let me see,” Lexa said, and she said it softly, and Clarke felt Lexa’s fingers wrap around her wrist, begin to pull it away from her chest as carefully as she could manage.

“Why?” and Clarke winced as Lexa began to unwrap the bandage that helped steady her wrist.

“Why?” Lexa asked.

“Why don’t you hurt as much as I do?” Clarke sniffed, she blinked back tears and she tried not to break more than she had.

Lexa was quiet for a long time, her fingers carefully prodding at the swelling of Clarke’s wrist, and at times Clarke winced as Lexa pushed a little too hard.

“It is ok,” Lexa said as she began wrapping the bandage back up before she leant back, put more space between them though she still remained on her knees, hands clasped in her lap.

It was odd, this dance they both seemed to play, and at times Clarke thought they both moved to the same rhythm, and at times she felt that they fell out of sync, where one would take a step back when the other would move forward, sideways, any other direction than just following.

And it was odd.

She felt numbed, she felt exhausted, she felt drained, and part of her never expected Lexa to answer any of her questions, part of her just expected whatever it was that had once existed to be swept under the rug and smothered before ever seeing the light of day once more.

But Clarke didn’t want that. She didn’t want to hide away from the pain. She didn’t want to pretend it never existed. Not anymore. Not when her life had taken so many unexpected turns that she never quite knew how long she had left on the earth.

She wiped away the tears from her cheek, she tried drying her eyes with the back of her uninjured hand, and she sniffled as she made herself more comfortable where she sat on the floor of Lexa’s mighty tent.

“Is this how it’s going to be forever?” Clarke asked when she felt she had steadied herself enough. “Are you just going to ignore me like we never happened?” and she looked Lexa in the eyes.

Lexa held her stare for far longer than Clarke thought possible, and in the silence she was sure she could see Lexa sifting through so many different things within her mind.

“I am sorry.”

Surprise filled Clarke’s main as she heard Lexa speak out.

And it was surprise for it seemed so unexpected, it seemed so alien, so very far removed from what she had ever anticipated.

Clarke watched as Lexa closed her eyes, turned her face and seemed to try to compose herself. And in the moment of silence that followed Clarke let herself memorise the hints of grey already streaking through the hair that wended their way from the woman’s temple, sh found herself taking in the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and the way the warpaint that only covered half her face etched into the wrinkles and seemed to make them all the more pronounced.

But then Lexa’s eyes opened, they opened and she turned to face her. And Lexa’s eyes seemed to be filled with more loss, more acceptance, more pain and anger and frustration than Clarke had ever seen before.

“I am sorry.”

 

* * *

 

Lexa’s mind shook, her fingers trembled yet she made sure her voice was strong, she made sure her voice was steady, that her eyes never wavered from Klark.

“I am sorry,” she said, and she saw surprise flash across Klark’s face, she saw shock, bewilderment and a hint of mistrust that she couldn’t and would never blame the woman for feeling.

Lexa fell silent then, and it was in part to make sure whatever she said remained strong, and it was in part because she tried to find words to the thoughts she knew filled her mind with each passing day.

And she thought of Nessa, she thought of her sister who had almost been taken from her. She thought of her nomon who at times looked at her like she knew her less than an acquaintance, who at times looked at her like a stranger, but whose face she knew she shared, whose faced showed signs of love, of emotion, of having the freedom to do more than hide away any pain she felt. She thought of Jaxta, the handmaiden who had been one of the first people she had met the first time she was brought to Polis as a newly found nightblood, she thought of Jaxta’s undying loyalty, of her duty to her until the very end. She thought of Costia. She thought of the love she had felt. The anger, the hopelessness, the want for revenge, for justice and how all those emotions had clashed with her duty to her people. Lexa remembered Anya. She remembered the woman who had been so prideful, brash at times, full of bravado, confidence and a barely contained anger that would bubble to the surface if she took too long to learn. She remembered the nights spent in the cold under Anya’s reproachful glare, and she remembered the keen sense of heartache she had felt when she heard Anya’s fight had ended, how duty had felled someone Lexa had always thought would outlive her. She remembered the nights huddled by a fire with the other nightbloods as the Heda before her spoke, of war, of politics and violence, and of duty.

And she longed for Gustus. She longed for the man who had taken the place of a father, a presence that had been by her side ever since she was old enough to hold a sword. She remembered his words of wisdom, of warning, of guidance when she needed someone to turn to in times of uncertainty. And Lexa regretted that the last time she had seen his face was when she withdrew her sword from his chest. She regretted that his last moments were filled with pain, suffering and death. And it had been because of her, because of her actions. Because of his duty.

_Duty._

That was what it was, Lexa came to realise, perhaps not for the first time, perhaps not even for the hundredth time. But she came to realise it more keenly than ever before. And she did so for all those other times she had never been confronted with what came after duty. She had never had to face the consequences more keenly than now, when those affected by her duty to her people, by her duty as Heda, had never had the chance to confront her before dying.

Lexa hated it, she hated how much her life had become numbed to consequence, how much she simply did for duty, for her people, and not for herself.

“Lexa?” her name being called seemed to break through the silence, and it startled her, it shocked her, made her realise she must have been silent for far longer than she had ever anticipated.

“It was my duty,” Lexa said after another single moment of thought.

“Your duty?” and Klark’s voice came out questioning.

Lexa thought about trying to explain why she made the deal with the Mountain, she thought about trying to explain why she had walked away. But she knew all the reason’s why would make no logical sense. But perhaps deep down, perhaps so very far buried beneath the surface, was a reason why.

“I was afraid,” and Lexa flinched as she saw an intensity begin to take hold in Klark’s eyes.

“Afraid of what?” Klark asked, the woman came a little closer, but Lexa was sure it was subconscious.

As Lexa took in Klark’s face she found herself remembering every single interaction that they had shared. But the one that kept coming to the forefront of her mind, the one that kept taking place within her thoughts surprised her.

Lexa remembered watching over Klark as she slept on the forest floor, a too gentle fire the only thing keeping them warm. She remembered the subtle throbbing in her shoulder that had come and gone, and she remembered holding onto her knife a little more tightly with each rustle in the bushes as she expected the pauna to burst out into the open.

It was that moment as she had watched over a sleeping Klark that she realised she couldn’t leave her, couldn’t walk away when every instinct in her body had told her that the pauna would attack at any moment, and that there was no sense in them both dying. And yet she didn’t.

“Do you remember the pauna?” Lexa asked quietly and she watched as Klark’s head tilted to the side.

“Yes,” Klark said.

“Do you remember when the pauna took hold of my leg? When it tried to pull me away?”

“Yes,” and this time Klark’s voice came out unsure and questioning.

“I told you to leave, Klark,” Lexa said, and she couldn’t help but to remember the moment she had accepted her death, she remembered deciding that as soon as she lost her grip on the rusted door frame that she would turn, try and pierce the pauna’s eye with her knife before it ripped her in two.

“I remember,” and Klark swiped at a strand of hair that clung to her cheek.

“I told you to leave me, Klark,” Lexa said quietly. “But you said _no way_.”

Klark seemed more unsure now of what she was trying to convey, but Lexa couldn’t help but to feel her heart clench with each passing second as she let herself embrace the pain.

“No way,” she said quietly. “ _Nowe,_ ” and she shrugged, if only because she knew not what else to do. “They sound very similar,” Lexa hated the fact that the thing that had taken hold in her mind, the thing that might have been the catalyst for every little decision she had made going forward, was all a misunderstanding, was all lost in translation. “ _Nowe_ in your language means _never_ ,” and this time Lexa hardened her gaze, made herself face the pain her duty had caused. “I know you did not mean it in that way, Klark,” Lexa said. “But I told you to leave me, and you told me never,” and Lexa saw a realisation beginning to dawn upon Klark’s face.

Lexa didn’t quite know if she made sense, she didn’t even know if she understood what she tried to say, herself. But she thought it important to push forward, to forge ahead while she still could.

“Duty has killed all those I care for, Klark,” and she clenched her jaw lest her lips tremble. “Costia,” she began. “Anya. Gustus. Jaxta, others, more than I can count,” she shook her own head for a moment. “I was afraid that my duty would cause you pain and suffering,” Lexa said. “I was afraid that my duty would have you die, Klark.”

But Klark snorted, and the sound stabbed into Lexa’s heart deeper than any blade could.

“You did that on your own, Lexa,” Klark said and despite the snort, and rather than the bitterness Lexa expected to hear, all she heard was tiredness, was loss, was a hollowness that echoed within her own mind.

Lexa wouldn’t run from her actions, she never did and she never would.

“I know,” Lexa said and she continued to keep her eyes on Klark, on the way the woman seemed to look all over her face in search of something unfound. “I never meant—” but Lexa stopped, she killed what she was to say before fully forming the words for she knew it would be a lie. And she knew it would be a lie for she knew then that her actions would cause Klark pain, would shatter her, would kill whatever she had felt beginning to grow between them. “I never wanted to cause you pain,” Lexa said instead. And it was true. It was true and she hoped Klark believed it. “I never wanted to hurt you. I never wished for you to suffer, Klark.”

“So you betrayed me?” Klark said, “you betrayed me, betrayed my people because your duty told you to?” Klark shook her head roughly. “That doesn’t make sense. That doesn’t make sense, Lexa,” Klark’s frustration seemed to be growing. “We were in it together. You and me. Our people together. We would have defeated the mountain together,” and Klark’s voice began to grow in volume, in emotion. “Together,” and she shook her head, closed her eyes. “Together,” Klark’s voice came out broken. “But you left. You left my people to die. You left _me,_ ” Klark’s eyes opened and Lexa watched as Klark pressed her own hand over her heart, clench it into a fist until her knuckles were white. “You left _me,_ ” and this time her tears began to fall again. “Us. You,” and Klark’s voice was nothing more than a broken whisper. “You left us.”

Klark fell silent, and it was sudden, it was abrupt, and Lexa found herself shying away from the intensity of Klark’s gaze as the woman seemed to study her, seemed to take in every little detail she saw.

And then, “I understand,” and Klark’s voice was odd, was detached. “In some sick way I understand why you betrayed me,” she took in a deep breath. “We were a threat. Even after joining sides,” Klark’s voice seemed robotic. “You had your duty to your people. And part of that was making sure they were safe from all threats. Including my people,” and Klark blinked back a tear. “When we burned down the village, that showed you and your people that we were a threat. When Finn murdered those villagers, it showed your people we were a threat,” and Klark bit her lip. “You thought I’d die in the mountain,” Klark continued, and she seemed less angry and more detached than ever before. “But you thought I’d weaken the mountain men enough that you’d be able to come back, kill everyone left. You thought both my people and the mountain men would have destroyed enough of each other that you could sweep in and take out whatever was left.”

Lexa didn’t say anything, she didn’t know what else she could say, and part of it was because she thought Klark had more to say, and part of it was because she couldn’t even quite figure out exactly _why_ she had done what she had done.

“But you were afraid,” Klark continued, and this time her voice came out more full of emotion. “You were afraid that your duty would kill me,” and Klark’s lips turned up at the corners just so slightly as she snarled an anger. “Like it did Costia. Anya. Gustus and then Jaxta,” Klark paused then, just so slightly as she seemed to think, seemed to look deeper. “No,” and she narrowed her eyes with just a little too much understanding for Lexa’s comfort. “You were afraid that if we fought together, if we took the mountain together, that I’d die by your side,” and Lexa felt her heart begin to still. “You thought if you kept me by your side that your duty would kill me—”

“Kl—”

“Stop,” Klark held up a hand. “You were afraid to keep me close so you pushed me aside. I was a numbers game to you, wasn’t I? What better way to keep me from being another victim to your duty than to throw me aside, send me to fend for myself,” and Klark seemed angry, or perhaps just broken, just emotionally disturbed. “In some sick way you thought betraying me, making me fight the mountain on my own would give me a chance to survive,” Klark seemed to latch onto a thought then. “That’s why you sent Alexandria and Nessa away, that’s why you don’t visit more than you should. Because you think they’ll become victims.”

“They already have,” and this time Lexa felt her emotions bubble to the surface. “They already have, Klark,” she hissed, and it was anger she felt, anger for so many things she longed to be able to control that she couldn’t. Lexa rose to her feet then, in part to put space between them, to give herself room to breathe, to focus, to vent her emotions, and in part to isolate herself for she hated the way Klark’s gaze burrowed so very deeply into her mind. “Everyone I have cared for has died. Everyone, Klark,” and she turned to face Klark to see her rising to her own feet.

Klark frowned, she seemed to think for a moment before speaking.

“Nessa and Alexandria didn’t die,” Klark said before pausing and taking a breath, “I haven’t,” Klark stepped closer, and as she did Lexa found herself taking a step back subconsciously, perhaps to maintain the distance, perhaps to isolate herself more than she already had. 

Lexa didn’t quite know what to say at that. She didn’t even really know what to think. But the longer she looked Klark in the eyes, the longer she found her defences beginning to crumble. She took in the way the fire burnt in Klark’s piecing blue gaze, she took in the way her tear streaked cheeks held no shame, she took in the way Klark faced her hurt openly, and she let herself memorise every little detail upon the woman’s face.

“I understand, Lexa,” Klark said then. “It’s fucked up but I understand,” she stepped closer and took in a deep breath. “I really, really—” a subtle pause, and then, “I really do.”

Lexa looked away, she looked into a burning candle and she found the intensity of the flame blinding, she found it overwhelming and too bright, but she embraced it for it seemed more gentler than the intensity within Klark’s eyes.

“I understand why you did it,” Klark said eventually. “But you still broke my heart.”

Lexa turned back to Klark then, and she saw tears beginning to fall down her cheeks once more as her lips quivered.

“I won’t cause any trouble,” Klark said then. “I’ll stay wherever you want me to stay until however long you need me there,” and she wiped at her eyes. “For Nessa, for Alexandria,” and she stepped closer until Lexa could feel her breath against her lips. “I’ll make sure my people don’t do anything stupid,” and now Lexa heard the heartbreak in Klark’s voice, she heard the unravelling of her mind. “I’ll go with you to Polis,” and it surprised Lexa when Klark leant forward, when she pressed her lips to her cheek for just one lonely second. Klark stepped back, took her in for one long moment before she turned for the exit. She paused just long enough to look over her shoulder, Lexa thought Klark took the time to make sure their gazes had met fully before continuing. “But this is goodbye, Lexa.”

And with that Klark ducked out of her tent and left her alone.

 

* * *

 

Clark felt drained, she felt exhausted, fatigued and frayed beyond imagination. She didn’t quite know what to do now, she didn’t even know what she could say to Nessa and to Alexandria. But she wanted to do it right, she wanted to make sure things were said the way they needed to be said.

And so Clark took in a deep breath, she looked up into the sky to find that the sun had set, that the moon had took its place and that the stars shone their light far and wide.

Clarke began to walk to the edge of the camp, she needed quiet, she needed space, she needed to be away from the constant buzz and whir of the Ark’s systems, away from the chatter of the camp, away from _people._ But despite that she felt warriors following her, and as she looked over her shoulder she saw two, a man and a woman, both she recognised following a short distance away. Clarke sighed, but she was under no false hope that they would leave her be. At least they would be quiet.

Clarke made it to the clearing’s edge before one of the guards called out to her quietly, and as Clarke turned to look over her shoulder she found the man already jogging up to her, one hand on his sword, his eyes turned outwards in cautious.

“I am sorry, wanheda,” he said after a moment. “I will not leave your side this close to the forest,” and Clarke could tell from the way his eyes hardened that she wouldn’t get very far in arguing the point.

“Just stay quiet,” she said as she turned back to the forest and began to walk.

Clarke walked for long minutes. She pressed deep enough into the forest that the sounds of the camp faded into the background, and then she found herself alone. She found herself alone with a silent companion who stood just an arms length away, in a forest she had once thought intriguing, intimidating, full of fear and uncertainty and loss.

Though the trees reached up into the sky, moonlight managed to pierce its way deep into the forest. Rays of light shattered the dark and illuminated the green moss that covered fallen tree trunk, weathered stone and beaten ground. Clarke turned in a slowly circle as she searched for a place to sit, for a place to rest, and her gaze landed upon a patch of mossy ground tucked away under a twisting tree.

Clarke sat there, she let her back rest against the weathered bark and she tried not to let the shaking of her shoulders and the tears that fell from her eyes make more sound than they needed.

Clarke didn’t know why she had gone to Lexa’s, she didn’t think she had even achieved anything. After all was said and done, she thought that the only thing that had become more clear to her was that her life on the ground had become so very different to anything she had ever hoped it could have been.

But the warrior beside her moved, and as Clarke looked up at the man she saw him shrugging off his long fur coat and bending down as he offered it to her.

“It is cold,” he said quietly. “You are not dressed for the chill of the night, wanheda,” and he smiled sadly as he wrapped it around her shoulders.

“Won’t you be cold?” Clarke asked as she tried to wipe away the tears.

“It is my duty,” he said simply as he turned back into the forest.

Clarke choked back a bitter sound at that for she couldn’t help but to think it ironic and so very much what she should have expected any grounder warrior to say.

“I’m sorry I don’t live up to my title,” Clarke said into the silence that followed.

But the man seemed not to mind for he simply shifted where he stood for a moment and Clarke imagined he considered his words thoughtfully.

“There is no shame in feeling the weight you must bear,” he said after a while. “You would not be worthy if you did not understand the lives that were lost,” and Clarke looked up to see him smiling at her sadly.

“What’s your name?” Clarke asked

“Al—”

A rustle in the trees broke the silence and Clarke watched as his eyes snapped into the direction of the sound. The warrior stepped in front of her and drew his sword in one motion.

“Polla,” he whispered out into the silence, and Clarke knew he called for the other warrior.

But no answer came.

“Come,” he said as he reached down for her.

And it happened faster than Clarke could even quite comprehend.

As soon as he reached down for her, as soon as he took his eyes off the forest a snap echoed out. The warrior snapped his hand back, turned to the sound but it was too late.

An arrow hit him square in the chest, the shock sent him stumbling backwards over her and he hit the ground with a silent _thud._ Clarke had only enough time to register what happened before she felt a sting burn into her neck. Clarke’s vision began to blur as she slumped over, her body becoming weak and numb.

And just before she lost consciousness she found herself looking into the fading eyes of the nameless warrior who had given her his fur coat. Because it was his duty.


	26. Chapter 26

Clarke dreamt she was safe, she dreamt she was sleeping somewhere comfortable, somewhere warm and kind. Something soft scratched her cheek with each breath she took, and as she turned into the warmth she couldn’t help but to think it unfamiliar, strange and foreign. And then Clarke’s eyes opened to find it dark. Shadows seemed to hang over her, and the wind she so often could hear seemed distant, far away and too quiet.

It took her only a second to remember what had happened but then she froze, she felt her blood freeze and she realised what must have happened.

Clarke found herself lying on her side on a cold, rough and hard surface with a thick fur covering her body. A shadowy figure sat in front of her, their body bathed in a deep purple shadow. Though Clarke couldn’t see a face, she knew the person looked at her, watched her, studied her and took note of anything seen.

“You are awake,” a woman’s voice said, and it was quiet, calm and careful.

Clarke thought of pretending to be asleep, she thought of screaming for help, of trying to flee, of running away. But she didn’t think it likely that help would come or that she was even anywhere near someone friendly.

Clarke pushed herself into a sitting position carefully so as to avoid hurting her aching wrist. She was no fool, she understood who, or at least which clan, this person belonged to, she understood what her predicament meant, and she understood the severity of her situation.

“What do you want?” Clarke said, and she blinked and shivered as the fur that had been placed over her fell from her shoulders and pooled around her waist.

The woman laughed quietly as she continued to watch from the shadows before she leant forward so that the light cast by the moon bathed her face in a deathly white glow.

“You.”

The answer was simple and straightforward and it made Clarke’s body shiver, it made her breath still and her mind race.

Perhaps to give herself time to come up with something to say, or perhaps in the desperate hope that she would recognise a landmark, Clarke looked around. But instead of the forest, what she saw were the remains of small building. Concrete walls crumbled and lay scattered about around her and the skeletons of a wooden roof with high beams twisted and bent, rusted and stabbed out in every direction overhead. Cracks wended their way across what she realised to be a concrete floor that she now sat upon.

She realised that the sounds of the forest were kept at bay by the remnants of the building, but that the cracks and holes in the walls and roof did little to hold back the chilling breeze and the sense of dread that seemed to be lurking in the corners of her mind.

“There is no one around to hear your cries for help,” the woman said quietly, and as Clarke turned her attention back to her she found the woman leaning back against a crumbling section of the wall, one hand resting atop a long knife, the other hidden somewhere in the shadows by her side.

“What do you want with me?” Clarke asked, and she grimaced as her lips cracked just enough to cause annoyance.

The woman didn’t answer though, she simply looked her up and down and seemed to take in every little detail she saw. Clarke couldn’t help but to recoil just a little at the narrowing in the woman’s eyes though. Within the gaze that looked back was a predatory glint, a cunning and calculation that seemed to be emotionless and void of any remorse for any discomfort to have befallen her.

But a low hoot echoed out around them. The woman’s head turned to the sound and Clarke watched as her grasp on the knife loosened and as she seemingly relaxed a fraction.

As Clarke continued to look out into the dark she saw a silhouette begin to emerge. A man stepped into the remains of the broken building and sat by the entrance, his clothes simple, rough and muddied brown.

“She is awake,” he said quietly and Clarke couldn’t help but to glare, to have her lips turn into the barest hints of a snarl.

“I have a name,” Clarke said, and perhaps she shouldn’t push, shouldn’t try to make a nuisance of herself, but she just couldn’t help it.

“Clarke,” the man said, and he shifted into a more comfortable position and folded his arms across his chest. “Wanheda.”

“What do you want with me?” Clarke asked, and she looked between man and woman who sat before her, unsure which one was the leader.

“Are you hungry?”

If it was any other time Clarke would have laughed at the suddenness of the question. If she knew herself to not actually be in any danger she would have thought it funny. But she wasn’t entirely sure that her life was safe, she wasn’t entirely sure if whoever they worked for wanted her alive, or if they simply wanted her head.

“Eat, if you wish,” the man said as he reached into a pocket and pulled out what she thought to be dried meat or fruit before he tossed it onto the ground in front of her.

Clarke watched the food bounce and roll across the ground until it came to a stop by her left knee, and part of her couldn’t help but to wonder if this was a ploy, if it was a trick, if it was a way for them to gain her trust or keep her occupied for however long they needed.

“It is food,” the woman said and Clarke looked up at her to find her smiling, yet the expression didn’t quite touch her eyes.

Clarke’s stomach growled then, and she couldn’t help but to grimace at the way the man chuckled as he leant back against the crumbling roof. She didn’t think it could hurt though, she didn’t think eaten what was offered would do her any more harm. And so she reached out as gingerly as she could, took hold of what she found to be dried meats and brought it to her mouth and began to eat.

Clarke ate in silence. But through it all she couldn’t help but to feel like she was being watched and studied for any sign that she would flee, that she would try to make a run for it. She was fully aware that under the calm and quiet exterior, both the man and the woman who sat before her were ruthless, cunning, willing and very capable of killing and maiming it they so chose. She even wondered if they had been part of the same group that had attacked her and Nessa, if they had been stalking her through the forests and avoiding the Trikru scouts.

Before too long Clarke found herself swallowing the last of the food, her finger tips a little sticky from the dried meat, and the slightest taste of her own blood coating her tongue from where her lips had cracked. Swallowing seemed a little too rough, too, and as she did so she found herself coughing at the scrape down her throat.

The woman threw what she assumed to be a water skin down in front of her then, the sounds of a liquid sloshing enough to tell her what it was.

“Drink, if you wish,” the woman said.

For yet another short moment Clarke wondered what her defiance would bring, if it would help, if it would cause them annoyances. But she discarded the thought, it only because she knew that if she were to escape, to lose this people in the forests that she would have to be at as full a strength as she could muster.

And so Clarke reached for the water skin and tried not to let the two people see just how thirsty she really felt.

“I told you she would not make it difficult,” the man said then, and Clarke pulled the water skin from her lips and glared at him.

“She is planning an escape,” the woman said with a gentle laugh as she reclined a little more carefully against the crumbling stone wall to her back. “Do not deny it, Clarke,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“I’m not planning anything,” Clarke didn’t know what good denying she was thinking of escaping would do, but she thought it couldn’t be worse than admitting she _was_ actually trying to think of just how she was going to get away.

“If you say so,” the man said from the shadows.

The woman rose to her feet then and Clarke watched as she eyed her for a very long moment before she began to move towards the open.

“I will scout and make sure we are not discovered,” the woman said as she paused by the man’s side. “We will not have long before they realise she is gone.”

“We move when the moon begins to drop in the sky,” he said. “Do not be late, Echo.”

 

* * *

 

Alexandria’s hands remained steady as she continued to brush Nessa’s hair in an attempt to tame the wild curls that so often threatened to take control if they were not cared for.

Alexandria didn’t quite know when Nessa had fallen asleep. But she didn’t mind continuing to brush her hair. But still, her eyes seemed glued to Nessa’s chest, to its rhythmic rise and fall. At times she found panic begin to rise when Nessa would take a moment too long for comfort between breaths, but then the panic would lessen as the moment passed.

Alexandria paused in motion for a moment as she found a knot, and she let her fingers work it out as gently as she could lest she cause Nessa any more discomfort than already had over the last many days.

Dhorma sat on the other side of Nessa’s bed, the man’s hands resting atop two knives strapped to his body as he watched the girl sleep. Some warriors were present in what Skaikru called _med-bay,_ their injuries sustained from training, from hunting and preparing for whatever dangers must still lurk outside. They remained quiet though, and she was sure Lexa had ordered silence to be kept anywhere Nessa went lest it disturb her.

And so Alexandria remained lost in thought, lost in memories and moments and times long since past. But before too long she found that she had tamed Nessa’s hair as much as she could, she found that the knots that had found their way through her wild curls had been ordered, forced into braids and tucked into place with a deftness borne from years of repetition.

It was then, as Alexandria put the brush down and leant back in her chair that she truly felt the crick in her neck, that seemed to bleed down between her shoulder blades and bury itself into her very heart. She couldn’t help but to grimace, to snarl and to want to reach out and take hold of someone’s throat, of whoever was responsible, of whoever had done what they had done to cause her daughter pain.

Dhorma must have sensed her growing discomfort because she felt more than heard him call out to her, his gaze careful and worried as he began to rise from the chair.

“I am ok, Dhorma,” Alexandria said quietly, but Dhorma simply continued to rise and shake his head as he moved around the bed until he came to stand behind her.

“You must rest, Alexandria,” he said, the kindness in his voice so very far removed from the anger, the fury and the violence she knew him capable of when needed.

“I will rest when those responsible are dead.”

Dhorma sighed heavily from behind her, and she was sure he wished to say more, to voice more, but instead he simply reached out, one hand bracing against the back of her neck carefully as he brushed aside her braids so that they fell over her right shoulder.

“Where is the pain?” he asked.

“Lower,” Alexandria said, her voice a quiet whisper as she leant into his tough, the skin she felt against her neck rough, worn and beaten to the years of violence.

Alexandria grit her teeth for only a moment in discomfort as Dhorma began to press into her neck, as he began to work out the knots of her muscles and as he seemed to fight away the tension that must have taken hold of her body ever since she had arrived at Arkadia.

She lost herself into the pain, into the aches, into the comfort and agony of the movements. She couldn’t help but to whimper at times when Dhorma’s motions seemed rough, she couldn’t help but to lean into his touch when they felt sure and comforting and through it all Alexandria felt a pain and an ache building in her heart.

But those pains and aches weren’t for her. She had lived a full life, she had lived a happy life at times. She still did despite recent times. But she felt a pain and an ache in her heart for Nessa. She didn’t think it fair to Nessa, she didn’t think it fair that Nessa had never really had friends her own age, had never really had someone to play with, to share joy with and to experience the youth with.

Dhorma had been there through the years, but even that had been little more than a bandage, an ointment that only eased the pains. She knew he did as much as he could for Nessa, she knew he played with her when it was appropriate, had cared for her when he could, had even helped raise in the few shorts moments that he was able to stay.

And Alexandria was sure, she was certain, that despite Lexa’s plan to bring them to Polis, that Nessa would be kept under guard at all times, would be locked away from others, unable to play with children her own age.

But perhaps it didn’t surprise her, if only because she knew Lexa did the only thing she knew how to do, if only because that was exactly how Lexa’s life had unfolded when she was discovered to be a nightblood.

And it ached, it hurt, it made her think it so very unfair that Nessa, a child who had no nightblood, who had done nothing, was forced to live a life never wished for.

But all that worry would be for nothing if Nessa didn’t recover.

And so Alexandria shook her thoughts free, as much as she could and she took in a deep breath as Dhorma paused his motions as he must have sensed her tension rising.

“We have something for the pain.”

Alexandria looked up to find Abby standing nearby, the woman’s hand holding a glowing piece of tech, one hand tucked into the pocket of her long white coat.

“I am ok,” Alexandria said as she sat up more straight in her chair and she felt Dhorma stand back from behind her.

“Ok,” Abby said as she seemed to take in the scene before her. “May I?” she asked as she gestured to the chair Dhorma had been sitting in not long ago.

“Pease, sit,” Dhorma said, and though Alexandria saw Abby’s eyes question, she found it admirable that the woman simply took the offer for what it was as she sat.

“I’m told we’re going to Polis,” Abby said after a while.

“Yes,” Alexandria said, and she couldn’t quite remember the last time she had been to the capital. “It will be safer for us there.”

Abby nodded, and though she didn’t say anything, Alexandria could see the misgivings in the other woman’s eyes.

“The journey is not a difficult one,” Alexandria said, “Nessa is strong,” she didn’t know if she said it to convince Abby or herself.

Abby nodded and Alexandria thought she did it more to herself than to those around her.

“What’s it like?” Abby asked then.

“Polis?” and Alexandria found herself recalling the last time she had been, when times had been so very different.

“Yes.”

“Overwhelming,” Alexandria said, and she looked away as she recalled the crowds, the cheering, the odd sense of dread that had filled her heart and the silence that had echoed throughout the city as nightblood after nightblood fell, cut down by their brothers and sisters until only one was left standing.

Abby seemed to understand that there was more to her words, that whatever topics she brought up were sore, her old wounds and so Alexandria was thankful that she didn’t pry, didn’t push more than she already had.

“Have you ever been to the ocean?” Abby asked.

“Yes,” Alexandria said, and she remembered when she had been much younger, more brash second than seasoned first, when Lexa and Nessa had been nothing more than fleeting dreams of a future long to be had. “When I was much younger,” and she smiled sadly as she remembered the man she had shared a life with, who had seemed too kind at times, too easy to forgive, but no less of a warrior than any other. “Long ago.”

“When I arrived on Earth,” Abby continued quietly. “We arrived in a lake surrounded by water that seemed to stretch out forever,” and Alexandria watched as Abby’s eyes turned misty. “It seems like so very long ago.”

“Yes,” Alexandria said and she smiled something that must have existed between sadness and longing and happiness. “Time is a burden for us all.”

Abby smiled at that before she sighed and began to rise from the seat, her gaze turning to Nessa who remained asleep.

“I should begin organising the supplies we’ll need.”

 

* * *

 

Lexa sat in her throne, the last words Klark had said to her still ringing in her ears. She didn’t realise just how much time had passed until the sliver of the sky she could see overhead began to turn purple, pink and red.

It felt like a knife had been stabbed into her core, it felt like her heart was on fire and that her thoughts had been consumed by a demon, a monster, a beast with no care for her sanity.

She wasn’t surprised to hear the things Klark had said, she wasn’t surprised by the decision Klark had made. Part of her had even expected it. But still, it hurt. It hurt and she knew herself incapable of doing anything to atone, to make amends.

It took Lexa a long moment before she realised that tears fell from her eyes, that her finger nails dug into the wood of her throne and that her lips trembled.

But when she realised, when she accepted just how much she hurt, she embraced it.

She embraced it and accepted it with all that she could.

An ache buried itself deep into her heart and she brought her fist to her lips and bit into her knuckle lest her pain escape into the open.

Something clicked in Lexa then, and it was sudden, it was fierce, it was all consuming and full of heated emotions, pains and angers and regrets.

She had spent so much of her life hiding away just how much Costia’s death had broken her. She had spent so long ignoring her own needs, her own desires and her own wishes. She had spent so long listening to the voices in her head that told her love is weakness, that to be commander is to be alone and that her duty to her people came before all else.

And perhaps for just one night, for just one selfish moment, she wanted to tell Klark how much she cared for her, how much she admired her strength, her resolve, her need to keep her people safe.

And if she was to take away only one lesson from what had happened since the Mountain, it would be that she had but one life to live, and that those she cared for needed to know, needed to understand that she only wanted what was best.

And so Lexa rose to her feet, she wiped away the rest of her warpaint and she made her way out of her tent, her shoulders squared and her mind racing.

Lexa walked through her war camp, Ryder shadowing her every step. Warriors bowed their heads as she passed, and she returned their greeting with a firm nod of her head.

But she didn’t really feel their gazes upon her, she didn’t really feel their eyes following her steps. All she felt, all she considered was the words she would say to Klark, was the things she needed to say to her nomon and to Nessa. She had almost lost all three of them in one fell swoop.

She had lost Gustus without being able to say goodbye. She had lost Anya without saying goodbye. She had lost Costia without saying goodbye. She had lost so many people without telling them how much she cared for them, how much they meant to her, how much she was willing to sacrifice for their safety.

She wouldn’t lose anyone else.

And so Lexa found herself walking through the halls of Arkadia, the metal of the corridors cold, barren, serene and desperate. Each step she took seemed distant and cold, each pace closer she came to Klark’s quarters came with an anticipation, with an acceptance that whatever she was to say, and whatever Klark was to say would be it.

And then Lexa turned one last corner, her mind racing as she began walking down the last lonely corridor. But as she continued down the emptiness she saw none of her warriors standing outside Klark’s quarters, she saw none standing at the end of the corridor, she saw none on guard.

Perhaps it was foolish for her to assume Klark would have sought comfort and solitude, perhaps it was arrogant for her to assume Klark would have done the same as she did in times of pain and suffering and so Lexa turned on her heels and began to wind her way towards the med-bay and to where Nessa remained under guard, for surely Klark would wish to spend time with those she cared most about.

But for some reason, the closer Lexa came to the med bay, the more a sense of dread seemed to build within her mind. She didn’t know why or how, but she seemed to sense a settling of weight upon her.

Lexa turned one last corner and she came face to face with those warriors she had assigned to guard Nessa’s location. Each one turned to face her, those closest to the corner she appeared around with hands on their weapons in anticipation. But they seemed to relax a fraction as they recognised her.

She began to move forward, her gaze moving to the far end of the corridor and to where she could see those inside the med bay.

As Lexa approached the med bay doors Nessa’s sleeping form came into view. Their nomon sat in a chair by her side with Dhorma standing behind her. Abby sat in a chair on the opposite side of the bed and Lexa could tell they were sharing in conversation.

It took her only a fraction of a second longer to realise that Klark wasn’t nearby, and it took her another second to realise that Klark wasn’t even in the med bay.

Lexa turned to the nearest warrior, a tall, dark skinned man with broad shoulders and a thick neck.

“Has Klark been here?” she asked.

“No, Heda,” he said with a cocked head.

Something began to gnaw at her insides then, and Lexa tried telling herself that she was imagining the worst, she was overreacting, but, she hadn’t got this far, she hadn’t survived assassination attempt and battle by ignoring her instincts.

And then she heard it.

Footsteps came running down from behind, their beat sharp, fast and desperate.

Lexa spun around, one hand instinctively dropping to her knife as Ryder took a step forward from behind her. But as Lexa spun around to face whoever it was that approached she felt her blood freeze.

“Heda,” a woman came to a gasping stop, one hand wiping away a braid that had fallen out of place. “Alson and Polla,” and the warrior seemed to blink back tears. “They are dead.”


End file.
